Page 33 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“Kavia.” There’s a deep ache in his utterance. “Kavia. Did you know this? Did you see all this?”

“Did who see what? Max. Damn it. Talk to me.”

A heavy breath rushes from him. He dips his head, fitting his mouth into my palm. “All is well, ma precieux cœur. All will be well now. I promise.”

I can’t help a confused scowl. “And it wasn’t before?”

“Not completely.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“That I just had to figure out the maze.” He widens his lopsided smile. “Why did I expect to clear it when I couldn’t even see what it was made of?”

I plant my face into my palm. “What are you talking about?”

He laughs. He does it rough and low, like I’ve leaned over and told a dirty joke. But in a language only he understands.

“The twenty-first century.” He repeats it with a weird calm, gliding his finger down the window. “Yes. Yes.”

“He catches on fast,” Drue quips—to which Max responds by slanting his smirk the other direction.

“Well, fast is one of my better traits,” he says. “But I also know when slow is better.”

Drue and Raegan break into laughter that fills the limo. Their peals are a perfect segue to the pop music station the driver has just cranked on. Though most of the songs don’t match what we listen to at home, the three of us bounce to the beats in our seats as Max leans back, his gaze regaining its sexy sparkle.

Holy shit. That sparkle.

This man.

He’s going to wreck me.

And I’m going to revel in every damn second of the disaster.

I sneak him a secret smile of my own, hoping it conveys exactly that. When his takes on a curl of sultry promise, I wonder how much longer I can wait to maul him again. It might be a miracle if I last to our first stop.

Thank God Macklemore comes to my rescue. The first English song of the rotation makes me trade high-fives with my friends. As we sing along about the sunrise and euphoria and feeling glorious, I realize that for the first time in a very long time, they’re not just song lyrics to me. Maybe this day can be a chance to start again. To know that I’ve been born for this moment and to be glad in it.

I sing it, and I believe it.

“We’re heeeere!”

Raegan’s shriek is perfectly timed to the end of the song. A dramatic French chanteuse takes Macklemore’s place. Her achy ballad is ideal as we approach a castle that makes the De Leon estate seem like a crofter’s cottage. The white stone structure has so many spires, its roofline resembles a cityscape. The main towers are as huge as grain silos. Trimmed gardens sprawl out from the structure on several sides, as spacious and pristine as Met Gala arrival carpets.

Because of all these factors and more, I can practically predict my friends’ initial reactions.

“Paging grand and gaudy,” Drue mutters.

“Paging amazing and awesome,” Raegan answers.

“Come on. Overcompensation much? This was what those medieval dudes had to build to get laid?”

“Medieval dude,” Raegan corrects. “His name was Francois the First, and he first commissioned Château de Chambord as his hunting lodge.”

“Hunting what? Five-headed dragons and orcs who ate babies?”

“Long-lost ideals.” Max’s expression changes again, twisting to match his wistful tone. “Francois was the last of the chevalier kings, and much of the castle’s construction harkens back to a time when donjons and moats were used for practical chivalric purposes. Despite how he was no longer part of that time, he wanted to preserve a memory of it.”

Raegan lifts a quixotic smile. “It’s kind of cool that you know that.”