Page 51 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

The exact same length. The exact same angle. The exact same place on his temple…directly over his left eye.

“Ooo la la.” I say it with a grin but wonder why Raegan and Pasca don’t reciprocate. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing as if the painting depicts the Apocalypse’s fourth horseman instead of my gorgeous Loire lover.

“Wow.” Drue disconnects from me to stand back, folding her arms. “There’s a candidate for hottest historical cosplay.”

“It’s a stunning painting.” I transfer my regard to Pasca. “It’s Maximillian, yes?”

She notches a regal nod. “Maximillian George Jean Valence De Leon.”

“And he actually has a last name.” Though my triumph about that is eclipsed by the wonder of the recognition. “De Leon. Which means…he actually lives here?”

“Mon Dieu.”

Pasca crosses herself. It’s not exactly the answer I was looking for.

“What the hell?” I mumble. “Does he live here or not?”

“Honey.” Raegan scoots a little closer. “Right question, wrong tense.”

“Huh?”

Raegan tugs me toward the right edge of the portrait. Along the way, a strange weight bears down on my chest. I don’t have a chance to interpret the sensation as my friend guides me to an identification plate mounted against the brocade wallpaper. As if she already knows I’m having trouble comprehending the words, Rae translates out loud. “Maximillian George Jean Valence De Leon, Fourth Comte of Leon, born seventeen sixty…and died seventeen eighty-nine.”

The pressure on my chest gets heavier.

The ends of my nerves are pricks of ice.

The neurons in my brain struggle to fuse back together.

“Okay, seriously?” I charge. “Still not grabbing the melodrama, kids. What does this mean, except that Max comes from a hearty gene pool?”

“Same page.” Drue adds her puzzled scrutiny. “The guy resembles his great-great-great-great-somebody-or-other. What’s the biggie?”

“Resembles?” Raegan jabs a determined finger back at the painting. “Come on. That’s a little more than a resemblance. Tell me I’m not the only one who sees it. The eyes. That posture. That scar.”

Drue rolls her eyes. Rae doesn’t surrender. I’m compelled to study the portrait again. My stare is drawn to the strong, steady goldens of the painting’s boldly handsome subject. And once again, I’m unable to blink. I’m unable to feel.

“I…I don’t get it,” I finally stammer.

“Stop,” Drue says. “Of course you do.” She hooks a hand to my elbow, pulling me back to our original position, a few feet behind Rae and Pasca. “This is a freakish genetic coincidence. Nothing more.”

Raegan spins around. “This isn’t just freakish, damn it. This is…”

“Coincidence,” I supply. “The other possibility on the table here, yes? And that has to be the case. Because Rae…honey bunch…I love you, but—”

“But what?” she snaps.

“Okay, park it and chill. I’m just trying to figure this all out. And I’ll admit, there are a lot of similarities. But Fancy-pants Max here doesn’t have the…brawn…that I’m used to. And my Max has lighter hair.”

“Your Max?” Drue doesn’t give up the opening for a jibe.

“For the sake of the argument,” I rebut.

“Not hating, baby.” She raises her hands. “About time you had a my anything other than work.”

“He was probably painted at a younger age. And the pigments in the portrait have likely darkened over time.” Rae’s explanation earns her a nod from Pasca but new huffs from Drue and me. But the girl is ready to give back as good as she gets. “Holy crap.” Her scorn hits the air with the force of ours combined. “Why are you two ignoring a truth that’s right in front of your face?” she demands. “Even after watching the man gawk all day about everything from debit cards to central air, while wearing threads from a casting call for the next Jack Sparrow, you’re buying that he’s just an eccentric local boy who loves cosplay?”

“All right, all right,” Drue relents. “I’ll nibble on your crazy a little, girl. But only a little.”