Page 73 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

No moping. No pining. And damn it, no crying.

Quitting a man is best done cold turkey. Mom taught me that one enough times. Or maybe it was me who taught her. Clearing that up isn’t important. The only priority is the tough-love plan for facing the day.

“You can do this.”

I repeat the mantra while kicking my way out of bed. I do it again while marching my ass across the room to pull out my clothes for today. Though Dmitri booked us all on a private charter out of Orly, the earliest departure he could get was later tonight, so Raegan insisted we stick to her plan of a countryside bike ride and gourmet picnic. Granted, we now only have a couple of hours instead of Rae’s originally scheduled eight, but that’s plenty of time to try filling my head with non-Max memories from the Loire. Something that doesn’t consist of tumbling chestnut hair, honey-gold eyes, carved god muscles, and a royal velvet voice…

The voice that taunts my memory, replaying so many of his words from our last hours together, in my room…

My reason. My heart. My calling.

I will hunger for you for the rest of my days. For the rest of time.

“Shit.” It’s more a snarl than a word, and I don’t care. Just like I’m over being concerned that my peasant blouse is probably inside out and my Stella McCartney embroidered jeans aren’t cuffed right. Just like I screw putting any makeup on besides lip gloss, because what woman in their right mind can think of anything else when their tears refuse to stop?

I meet Drue and Rae for breakfast, though I can’t force anything down except coffee and berries. My friends are silent but supportive, giving me room to brood. Damn, how they know me—and how lucky I am to have their strength at times like this.

At times like this?

Who am I kidding? I’ve never had another time like this.

Not during any of Mom’s messy breakups. Or the piles of internet troll emails and comments. Not even after the hundredth time I was told there wasn’t a place for curvy girls in high-end fashion reporting. All those instances, I was able to drag myself free of the sorrow. Point myself back on my personal road—because I knew it was the right direction.

But I don’t feel right anymore. Hell, I barely know which end is up right now.

After Pasca packs the wicker panniers on our bikes with lunch goodies, we set off down the wide paths of the garden. In short time, the pressed gravel gives way to a rugged dirt track. Soon, we’re pedaling beneath the thick canopy of the forest, sunlight dotting our leisurely progress. We breathe in a bouquet of wildflowers and listen to soft birdsong. This trail is different than the way we took after I first arrived. Henri calls it “la route rustique.” Funny, how those French have a poetic way of phrasing everything. After five minutes on the sylvan trail, I’m positive the man really meant “la route de bruise-your-bottom.”

But dealing with the pain across my backside is way better than coping with the growing ache in my heart. And it’s a relief to focus on navigating the rocky trail instead of wondering where Max has disappeared to—again. And what he’s been doing there. And if he’s all right and not lost or confused or—

“Are you even kidding me?” I let my tight lips convey the derision as I stomp harder on the pedals, powering up an incline.

“What?” Rae volleys. “Come on, it’s not that big of a hill. We do worse sprints in spin class.”

“I don’t think that’s where she was going with it, missy.” Drue gives me a good excuse to admire her ensemble for the day: black velvet culottes and gray pinstriped tights paired with a vintage military jacket and a bright-yellow beret. “And do not bring the sacrilege of evoking spin class on this fine, fine, fine day.”

As we cruise down the slope on the other side of the climb, I expel an audible huff. “It is a fine day, isn’t it? I mean, technically, this should be one of the best days of my life, right?”

“Pffft.” Drue takes a swig from her water bottle. “You go ahead and feel whatever you need to, girl.”

“We’re not here to judge,” Rae concurs. “Just to listen.”

I shoot her a wry look as we stop in a clearing between leafy alders and oaks. “Just listen, huh?” I tilt back my own water bottle. “So it’s forest therapy time minus Henri’s Crémant?”

Drue cracks a Cheshire Cat grin while flipping back the lid on one of her panniers. Directly beneath the très cute basket top, there’s a blue-checkered linen swathed around the neck of a familiar red bottle. “I believe I can assist in the Crémant department.”

“Which leaves the therapy duties for Doc Tavish here?” I dismount and drop my kickstand. “Better pour me a big swig of that shit.”

“And the problem with that is…what, exactly?” Rae flings her mane while getting off her own bike. “Just because I believe in getting the obvious out into the open?”

I grimace as my first swig of the Crémant hits my throat. That’s better, though not better enough. “Honey, I know you want to kiss the boo-boo, stop the bleeding, and give me a pretty pink bandage on top, but sometimes, cauterizing the sucker is just a better way to go.”

“An amen and a trés bien to the sister.” Drue clunks her cup with mine before we both swig again.

Raegan refrains from joining us. Instead, peering at me with a calm that’s eerie, she murmurs, “So you’re admitting something is bleeding?”

Drue beats me to the punch on the exasperated groan. “For the love of the little Lord Jesus, wench. Give it up, okay?”

Rae pouts. “Mmmph.”