Page 49 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“That what?”

I sweep my stare once more up the path. Raegan and Max have stopped too. Despite the mini-mob of women hovering nearby, clearly debating which one of them gets the privilege of moving in on him, the Marquis de Hotness is still riveted on me. It’s exhilarating but unsettling. I can’t shirk the sense that he really was serious about the proposal. And if that was the case, what I just killed off inside him with my rejection.

“Girls!”

Raegan saves me with the burst of her shout and a wild wave of her hand. “Tick tock. Hustle, hustle! Château de Cheverny is expecting us in five!”

It’s certainly not the last time the woman has to hurry me along throughout a day at the speed of tourists-on-crack. But maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. I think. I’m definitely going for the group’s straggler award, despite how every locale is more interesting and breathtaking than the last. Still, I can’t seem to pick up the pace. My steps drag, no doubt galvanized by my psyche’s deep mire of confusion. All that muck is centered around one particular member of our party. And despite their usual back-and-forths, I know Rae and Drue notice. I also know their thoughts must be trailing the same direction as mine. Back to Drue’s claims in Chambord’s portrait gallery.

Maybe they’re more accurate than we gave her credit for.

A lot more.

Maybe crazy can come disguised in the form of a ripped, rugged pseudo-knight who can talk like a poet, kiss like a fantasy, and screw like he’s galloping off for the Holy Wars tomorrow. Maybe Max’s act isn’t one at all. Maybe his wide-eyed wonder through every second of the day is a genuine display of his disconnect from reality. It’s hard to believe otherwise, watching as even the basic stuff, like cash registers and coffee makers and ear buds, cause him to stop as if watching an alien give birth.

And then there are the times his reaction is…intense.

After four more hours of castle touring—meaning two hundred and forty more minutes of his strange behavior and my increasing confusion—we’re back at Château De Leon. Everyone’s ready for some rest, food, and afternoon tea to dispel the chill that never really left the day. I’m dying to kick up my toes in front of the expansive fireplace in the big sitting room on the third floor, so I don’t hold back my groan of delight when spying the elevator doors once we step into the château’s main foyer.

“Thank God for the forward-thinking De Leon who ponied up to have that installed.”

Raegan joins her weary chuckle to mine. “I’ve hit triple my normal step count today in stairs alone.” She darts a glance at Max. “So make me feel better, big guy. Tell me you’re a little sore too.”

“A little.” He kicks up one side of his full mouth. “But in all the best ways. It has been a while since I enjoyed a day of fresh air and walking.”

“You don’t say.” Drue returns to hardcore sarcasm as we all enter the lift.

All of us except Max.

At once, he skitters away from the doors like a lion refusing to enter a cage.

“Hey, Hotness.” I motion for Raegan to keep the door open while I step out. I wrap a hand around the stiff fist at his side. “You all right?”

Max’s chest rises and falls with violent heaves. It’s like he’s never seen an elevator before. “Why is there a dungeon inside this place?”

I should be laughing at that. I’m not. His trepidation—his terror—is real. “A what?” I say as gently as I can.

“You heard me,” he grates. “Why is there a dungeon in the middle of the grand vestibule? And why are you all freely entering it?”

“It’s okay.” I circle my hand around, coaxing his fingers to open. “It’s just an elevator. We’re only going three floors.” After caressing his palm with gentle circles, I twine our fingertips. “And I’m right here.”

He swallows, dips a reluctant nod, and, with steps resembling a man trudging to the gallows, follows me into the elevator. He’s low-key about the death grip he has around me—until the gears whir to life. As we rise, I try not to wince from his stress-ball squeeze.

“Okay,” I finally rasp into the base of his neck. “We’re here. It’s all over.”

He doesn’t relent his hold. Part of me is just as reluctant as him to let go. The man’s sculpted chest isn’t a bad place to be face planted.

He stumbles out of the lift. Stops for one second. Then another. He peers around as if we’re a Star Trek crew who just beamed onto a new planet. “Mère de Jesu. How…how did we…”

A deafening clatter cuts him short.

Rae and Drue rush over to the doorway between the landing and the sitting room. Beneath the ornately carved arch, Pascaline De Leon is standing as if the whole opening itself has frozen over. Her pallor is that pale. Her eyes are that wide. Her mouth has dropped into a stunned O.

She’s been the epitome of French style and etiquette since we got here—until now.

She remains as motionless as a zombie, oblivious to the full tea tray she’s just dropped.

“Shit,” Drue blurts. “Pasca? Ça va?”