Page 45 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

She is quiet for a long moment, as if that post-storm light has stunned her too. “You…you really do.”

I narrow my gaze. “Why are you afraid of that?”

She swallows. Gazes up at the small bird’s nest in the rafters of the tower. “Because it means that eventually you’ll see everything.” When she turns her head back, every troubled gleam in her eyes is exposed. “Even…the ugly parts.”

“Oui,” I finally reply. “But is that not the way of things for life? Accepting the ugly parts with the good? That is the balance of who we are as humans, n’est-ce pas?”

Heavy air rushes from her. The sound is not a laugh, though I cannot decipher the truth of it, either. “Well, damn it, Hotness,” she finally mutters. “You trying to turn me into weepy YouTube fodder?”

I clench my jaw. “Only if this Hugh Two, whoever he is, sees the Alessandra that I do.” I lower my head and take her lips in a reverent kiss. “Ma belle crème. Ma surprise miraculeuse.”

After ending the kiss, I circle an arm around her waist to keep her secured as tight as possible. To my shock, she does not fight the hold.

A new laugh spills from her. “This is…nice,” she finally declares.

I release a low hum as her fingers thread through my hair. “Hmmm. Oui. Nice.”

“No.” She wets her bottom lip. “Better than nice.” She spreads her fingers along the side of my face. “Who are you, Max? Maximillian.” The question is edged with sardonic wit. “It’s beautiful. Does it come with a last name? And do you think I finally might get to learn it? Or maybe more about where you came from before popping from the furniture in my suite last night? Or anything else except your extraordinary ability to make me scream for your junk like a porn star?”

Once more, she seems tempted toward a laugh. I use the moment as an excuse for dodging her queries. What would she do with the complete truth? I only have my twisted gut to serve as my advisor.

“I was born here, in the Loire,” I start softly. “My father was an entrepreneur, inventor, and landowner.”

“Oh, wow. Impressive. And what about your mother?”

I feel my smile give way to a swallow. “Well, she loved life and everything in it. She gave herself to everything and everyone with passion, whether she was knitting blankets for the poor, puttering in her herb garden, or playing with my brother and me…”

I grit my teeth against the sudden ache in my heart. The pain is relieved only when the woman in my arms rubs her comforting hand there. “You’re talking in the past tense,” she observes quietly. “About them both.”

I mold my hand over hers. “Oui.”

“So your parents have passed?”

“Oui.”

“How long ago?”

“A long time.” Ventrebleu; too long to fathom. And yet not long enough. I can still remember every second of Kavia’s weeping when she came to tell me the fate that had befallen them.

“I’m sorry,” Alessandra whispers. “But your brother—”

“He is gone as well.”

She stops rubbing. “Damn. I’m sorry, Max.”

“I know.” I lower a reverent kiss to her lips. “Merci,” I whisper. “For the bravery and depth of your heart, ma femme.” I hope she hears what I cannot verbalize. That her forthright comfort is just what I need in the midst of fate’s ineffable storm. Empathy and respect, not pity and simpering.

Because she sees me too.

“You’ve known a lot of sadness in your life, haven’t you, Hotness?”

I give her only a quizzical glance. How do I properly answer that? Only half the query is tripping me up, however. Defining sadness is not the challenge. It is the other word that stops my thoughts.

Life.

“That is an interesting question, ma chérie.”

“You’re an interesting man, Maximillian of the Missing Last Name.”