Page 8 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Our embrace gains more force as Raegan bounces over from behind, happily taking up position as our resident Tigger. “Surprise!” she cries, ignoring how I groan from being the filling in a bestie sandwich. “Happy birthday. You’re a quarter of a century old. We wanted to do something more than cake.”

“Raegan is out for more than cake,” Drue corrects, just wry enough to secure her spot as our Eeyore stand-in. “I’m just along for the ride.”

I flash her a wink. “What a ride I bet it was.”

She winks back. “Who says it’s over?”

“And the wench scores a comeback point.”

“Stop calling me wench. Around here, they may use that as permission to put me in a corset.”

“Now that I’m adding to the birthday wish list.”

Raegan interrupts with a happy dance around the gravel drive. “Can you even believe this place? It’s got six floors, seven bedrooms, three gardens, two pools, a croquet court, stables with real horses—”

“And prehistoric Wi-Fi.” I glower at my phone and wonder if—please God, no—their internet is dial-up.

Like a sadist on a bungie jump bridge, Drue snatches the device from me. “Live with the dinosaurs for a few days, wench. I dare you.”

I commit to a censuring glare. “Not. Fair.”

“And the pace you’ve been on is?” she counters.

Now she’s hitting real buttons. I scowl harder while crunching a divot into the gravel with my boot heel. Fortunately, the tension is cut when the mansion’s massive front doors are swung wide. A man and woman appear, as regal and imposing as the portal itself. Both are dressed in this season’s Prada, though he’s opted for a blue silk cravat to finish his tailored cream suit, and she’s accessorized her pink poplin dress with impeccable antique jewelry.

Wow.

I almost blurt it out loud, wondering if they actually have titles to match their noble allure. I’ve not been in such awe of a couple since first watching Grace and Rainier’s wedding footage.

“Bonjour.” The man strides forward, still in gallant knight-at-arms mode. “Bienvenue to Château De Leon.” Along with the greeting, he lifts our hands and brushes kisses across our knuckles. “I am Monsieur Henri De Leon, and this is my wife, Pascaline.”

Grace—errr, Pascaline—sweeps her head down as if preparing to be crowned. “But just Pasca to keep it simple, oui?”

“Just Pasca. Got it,” Drue answers. “C’est joli.”

“Merci.”

As Pasca smiles again, I scoot closer to Drue. “C’est joli?” I challenge into her ear. “Don’t tell me you’re really going down the rabbit hole too.”

“Pffft.” She flips her long mane over both shoulders, compelling me to stand back. “So it’s a little over-the-top—but isn’t over-the-top what you thrive on, Ms. Key Fashion Influencer?”

“Seriously?” Raegan snips. “Five minutes in, and we’re already bringing up the girl’s day job?”

“She started it,” Drue volleys. “I mean, technically. With the pouting about the internet, and—”

“Do I look like I care who started it?” Raegan plants hands on her embroidered denim hips. “This trip is intended as an escape, especially for this one.” She points the invisible laser beam on her finger between my eyes. “Missy, there’s being passionate about your job, and there’s being your job.”

“And that’s wrong…why?”

She tightens her scowl. “You’ve been eating, drinking, sleeping, and breathing high fashion since the beginning of the year.”

“Again…your point?”

“Allie, it’s nearly April.”

“And I covered four Fashion Weeks in a row,” I counter. “Along with all the insanity between them.”

“Insanity.” As soon as Drue murmurs it, she holds up both hands with palms out. “Annnd I rest my case.”