Page 37 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“I’ll handle it.” I regret the snip. Sort of. Raegan planned our day with a lot of love and care. But she’s also the one who insisted on inviting Max, and this is the fallout. “You two go ahead. I’ll figure this out. We’ll catch up. It won’t take long.”

I don’t stick around to make sure they’re okay with the call. I only know what my gut is telling me. That this is about way more than simply bats in Max’s belfry—and that whatever caused his stress back in the portrait gallery, it was visceral. And real. And I hope he won’t continue to bury it.

While I’m not exactly into kumbaya circles and sharing-is-caring time, I’m sure that beneath the man’s sinfully hot exterior and carnal sexual skills, there’s a core of bewildering but captivating purity.

I all but throw people aside so I don’t lose the hunk in the crowd.

But that’s exactly what happens.

I burst back out in the foyer, combing the masses, but I see no familiar head of thick hair or shoulders that could toss a caber like a matchstick.

Damn it.

After a minute of the desperate search, I slump against the wall and finally face the truth. My one-night fling with the sexiest but oddest man I’ve ever met might truly be over. Whoever he really is and whatever he was really up to, my marquis of mystery wants to remain that way.

A squeal slices the air from somewhere above. The sound is high-pitched, happy, and female—the kind of shriek a woman would have from running into a six-foot-plus, hotter-than-hell male dressed like a reincarnated lord of the realm.

Pure intuition guides me to sprint up the circular stairway. Halfway up, I’m seized by a violent instinct to retreat. Doesn’t this epitomize every lame, half-whacked chase that Mom gave to her string of pitiful princes after Dad? Isn’t it stupid to go after a guy who doesn’t have all his mental nuts, just because of what his other nuts did for me last night? By following him, aren’t I kicking fate in the crotch?

But I climb every damn step.

Following him.

At the third-floor landing, I hear another happy shriek.

There are a couple of girls standing there, dressed in bedazzled T-shirts, colorfully printed leggings, and bright-pink Chucks. They’ve got to be the sources of the squeals from a minute ago. I fake interest in the balustrade as they continue their animated conversation.

“What the hell was that?” the first one poses.

The second girl, a tiny blonde with fishtail braids, pops her gum. “Don’t you mean who the hell? But I didn’t see a name badge anywhere.”

“Doesn’t matter,” volleys the first, clicking her nails. “He’s still got to work here. That historical cosplay stuff isn’t, like, normal everyday attire around here, right?”

“Don’t think so.” Another gum snap. “And he went into that restricted area like he owns the place.”

“Should we wait around and see if he comes back out?”

“Ew. Stalker.”

“Yeah, you’re right…”

Their chattering fades as they hurry away, wanting to get the jump on the crowds for the craft fair being set up in the garden. As soon as they’re gone, I hurry toward a sign across the landing that reads Limité in bold letters. I swear the universe’s neon translation of it goes something like He Went This Way, Allie.

The certainty slams me. But as I approach the sign and the dark hallway beyond it, that conviction is joined by another.

Buh-bye-Maxie isn’t going to cut it. Not for me. Not this time, with this guy. Not before I can at least tell him—

What?

That last night might have been more than just a role-playing shag for me? That in those God-awful moments of mush we exchanged, a bunch of my cynical emotional boxes popped their lids? That it had felt good—so damn good—to toss aside the stress about what I said, how wittily I said it, and what sound bites could be pulled from it, for a few beautiful hours? To forget about how many followers I’ve gained, deadlines I’ve met, and people I’ve pleased? To be simply pleasured, worshiped, adored for everything I already am?

But I don’t really have to say any of that, right? I can just make sure he’s okay. Just be a good person. Just heed the strange voice that keeps calling me to care for that exposed wound in him. Making sure he gets first aid doesn’t mean I have to stay for his whole rehab, right?

“Right,” I mumble as the passageway narrows, twists, and then ends at a scuffed wooden door with a wrought-iron handle. “You’re just being a decent human being, Allie. You should be proud of yourself. That’s all this is. You’re just checking up on a friend who’s having a bad day.” I lay my fingertips across the top of the handle and ignore the fact that they’re quivering a little. “A friend who’s escaped behind a weird dark door in a creepy, moldy tower…”

I shove determinedly at the door. The hinges let out a long creak that echoes off the stark stone walls.

“Max?”