Page 84 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

She blinks. The new sheen in her gaze reminds me of moss on a battle turret. “You know what, Hotness? I think you’re right. Maybe we should just go back to bed.”

I nod tightly—while fighting every urge through my body, a thousand claws strong, to pull her back. But what will be achieved save the satisfaction of our lusts? How will that change the fiber of who she is? How will it heal her heart’s wounds and smooth her soul’s scars? The damage she carries from a long and painful war—against the enemies she must overcome in order to save me?

Her own logic.

Her own will.

Her own fears.

The answer is already agonizingly clear.

She cannot.

I see that now, as clearly as the skyline of the city across the river. I confront my terror of it as I did when first seeing the Isle of Manhattan at night, jutting against the stars in its brutal brilliance. But on that night, Alessandra had tugged me onto the balcony upon which I walk now. She took my hand, making me view the sight with different eyes. The bold glass angles of 30 Hudson Yards, the Bank of America Tower, and the Nordstrom Tower. The historical icons of the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building, which she coaxed me to the top of a few days ago.

And then, the most meaningful spire of them all.

The gleaming silver beacon at one end of the island. The tower called Freedom—and the story she relayed, explaining exactly how it came by the name.

And suddenly, none of it was so fearsome anymore.

Just as the certainty of my death can no longer be.

The moment I come to the admission, the fear starts to lift. My conflict clears. Even the constant pressure in my chest, denoting my struggle to let her go, is a little lighter.

Fate has saved the most difficult part of my journey for the end, and for that, I am thankful.

I can do this.

How agonizing can two more weeks be?

ALLIE

“The hem needs to be taken up here…and here.”

I use the salon’s mirror to meet the scrutiny of the woman at my feet. She lowers her wrist, adorned with a bright-pink pincushion, and blinks past trendy glasses that double the size of her caramel eyes. I arch my brows and nod, making certain she comprehends my instructions. Not expecting miracles on the answer. Though the advisors of the Maison Magique are some of the top fashion consultant salons in the city and I was damn lucky to snag personalized appointments for Max and me, that magique just isn’t happening during our final fitting before the big Hemline gathering at the Hotel Obelisk tomorrow night.

In short, the most important meeting-not-a-meeting of my life.

Which means my head needs to be fully in this game.

Not that luscious little Refinna the seamstress is helping in that department. The observant little woman widens her smirk, completely wise to the friction between Max and me—and there’s nothing I can do to stop her snark. The energy she’s sensing is real. I have no right to keep asking him to play my dutiful boyfriend, even when we both know what’s at the end of this little life episode. For us both.

Goodbye.

That’s all I can give him. That’s all I know how to give.

The coffee and yogurt in my stomach start to curdle. This time, the nausea has nothing to do with Refinna—though her pout makes me feel like a brat who’s asked for thousand-dollar tennis shoes instead of alterations at three hundred bucks a stitch.

“Is mademoiselle quite certain about the higher skirt?” She peers through the trendy lenses, theatrically perfect about her bafflement. “The dress’s color is already a risk factor. Lavender is a fleeting trend, n’est-ce pas? And if the event is at the Obelisk, then perhaps black—”

“Will be what everyone else in the place is wearing.” I sweep a polite smile. “So you see…oui?”

She purses her lips, making it obvious she doesn’t. I sigh, almost wanting to let her win. The fate of nations doesn’t rest on the color of my dress for tomorrow night. By next week, the Hemline party will be a distant memory for many.

Next week.

My belly sours more painfully.