Page 85 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Hemline’s decision will be final by then, with the new shows for the fall season to be announced live on Connie Filigree’s prestigious morning show.

And as Max himself still maintains, his last week of mortal life.

It’s only a few details worse than the hard truth Dmitri brought me this morning. Though the man has been my unexpected yet invaluable knight in shining armor through all of this, putting off the authorities with swagger that’s worthy of bedazzled trophies for miles, he’s told me that the jig is nearly up. The ruse must come to an end.

And of course, Max keeps saying it won’t be an issue. That he’ll be a ghost soon. Trouble is, he’s got even Dmitri convinced about his tale, and now my self-involved assistant has become committed to Max’s plight. In Dmitri’s own words, I’ve got to either propose to the man or buy him a one-way ticket back to the Loire.

In short, the whole situation sucks elephant balls—which Refinna looks like she’s rolling around in her cheeks as she plays with the tuck points I’ve indicated along the dress’s front hem. “The front… It is cut like elegant drapes, oui? And thus, the leg is highlighted like so…”

“Understood,” I return. “But—respecteusement—I’d like it shown off like so.” I grab a couple of pins off her wrist and poke them through the fabric, demonstrating exactly where I want the alteration.

She flairs her sleek eyebrows. “That is a daring hemline to commit to, mademoiselle.”

“All the better, since she is a great deal of beautiful woman.”

Refinna and I pivot toward the man who’s quashed our ovaries in the span of one sentence.

If Maximillian De Leon was my addiction before now, he’s just become my obsession. Every tissue between my thighs clenches. Every cell of my pussy demands carnal knowledge of him—especially if he’s wearing that suit.

Holy shit. That suit.

Yeah, I hit a home run on picking out this one. Even snooty Refinna won’t be challenging that fact. Crazily, the choice took all of five minutes, since we came in for his fitting right after leaving the Empire State Building. I’d been certain Max would love the experience after his giddy excitement during the plane ride, but he’d lasted less than a minute on the building’s famous observation deck before turning three shades of green. He was still squeamish when we got to the salon, so I followed instinct and selected the ensemble that captured my eye first. The slimmer-cut pieces, designed by a new Italian stud with Prada, are a shade brighter than navy but darker than cobalt. The jacket is lined in a luxurious fabric blending shades of plum and—yessss—lavender.

Yeah. I’m already obsessed.

And everyone in the Garment District will have to take a number in line behind me.

Except, it seems, for little Refinna.

The little bird pops to her feet and struts over to Max as if she’s holding the big Number One instead.

“Hmmmm.” The peevish diva I’ve been dealing with has been replaced by the flirty creature who struts a full circle around my man. Okay, not my man, but the hell if he’ll become hers. “My, my, my,” she croons, deliberately coy—a guile I now see he’s familiar with. Maybe even enjoying a little.

Down, Allie.

I back up the command by crucifying my palms with my fingernails. Then deeper. What the hell is going on with you? He’s just being nice—in an eighteenth-century French court kind of way.

“Êtes-vous d’accord?” Max casts a smooth but friendly smile across the showroom.

Because he’s polite like that. Because he believes everyone gets to have kindness, even if they’re a condescending snit.

“Oh!” Refinna jumps up to respond. “Oui, oui! I do approve! The man must always wear the suit, not the other way around. And monsieur, you do wear this suit.”

The praise rolls out of her like a satin ribbon. She starts touching him in the same way, disguising her seduction as an assessment for the suit’s fit. Max hardly flinches, which jolts my tired mind in all the wrong places. Refinna’s strokes get bolder, making her look like a desperate dollar-beer-bar babe from this angle, but Max doesn’t seem affected in the least. Not even as she runs a long, defined finger up and down his fly.

Until he turns to her with a dark stare and an extended growl.

What the living hell?

His expression, which could mean anything from illicit invitation to blatant caution, has been one of my favorites for the last month. I’m not sure how to feel about it now—but I’m damn well going to find out.

I kick off my heels and then push off the fitting box. I’m glad for the few steps necessary to get over to the cozy pair. The jabs of the pins in my thighs help to clear the red haze from my vision. I’m not so fortunate with the conflict in my blood, which is slathered in a layer of thick confusion.

This scenario isn’t new for me. I’m practically a pro at it. And sometimes—most times—I’m even relieved when one comes along. It’s easy. Clean. An ideal excuse for justified outrage. A perfect opportunity to plate up a big, juicy buh-bye to a man. Best of all, the problem can be his, not mine. No messy self-esteem issues. No sleepless nights inspired by Launette Fine, wondering what I did wrong and what I could have done to save things.

As they’d said in the Loire itself, voilà.

But voilà doesn’t have a contingency plan for a piece of work named Refinna. The same Refinna who tucks her fingertips into Max’s waistband while batting her honey eyes up at him. The woman who’s clearly going for the gusto with one end goal in mind. To drag him off to her personal fitting room.