Page 87 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

I almost regret saying it. Truthfully, the shadows are a magnificent place in which to find her, especially in this little grotto tucked away from the bedlam calling itself a “quiet but formal party.”

I cannot admit that I initially shared her excitement about the Hemline event, having dismissed it with cavalier pride. Even after twenty-plus decades, I’d assumed no fête on earth would rival the carnality of the French Court masquerades. But the people of this Obelisk Hotel have proved me wrong. In grand and magnificent ways.

The hotel, owned by an entity called Richards Resorts, has employed a small army for the event. Yet none of them are attired in matching uniforms. The luxury of their unique vestments is outshined only by the serving trays they carry, illuminated from within by some hidden magic. The food tables, brimming with luxurious fare and encircling the long rectangular swimming pool, are bridged to each other via long clear tubes filled with running water and teeming with living fish in every color imaginable.

But I am doubly dazzled by the crowd.

At court every year, I could walk through one room and know I might as well have viewed the whole throng. The women with their high wigs and low necklines, the men with their brocades and buckles. Nearly everyone with skin the color of milk, a status symbol of its own—and usually not in the best ways. But at this gathering, there are interesting faces everywhere. So many textures and hues and expressions.

While Alessandra was correct that most would opt for some form of black with their attire, the variations on that theme are astounding. From nearly naked nymphs to mummy-wrapped Amazons, my fascination has been completely conquered. If my days in this realm are truly numbered, at least I have the memories of the last two hours to take with me.

Two hours.

Another comprehension I cannot fully grasp.

Somehow, the time feels like twice as long—a sensation for which I should be grateful, since fate has conspired to hang the moon large and luminous over the city tonight, a glaring reminder of the time I have left to exist. But I cannot celebrate as long as Alessandra stays glued to that bench. Or refuses to touch the delicacies I have brought for her. Or even peeked at the glamorous crowd beyond her discreet hiding place.

“I’m good right here, Hotness.” At least a smile glimmers in her kohl-lined gaze as she gratefully accepts the new libation I bring for her. “Mmmm. A fresh cosmo and a hot date. What more could I want—except to not be here?”

I settle onto the plush couch she has commandeered since sneaking off after her greetings to the Hemline nobility. I cannot stay a hand from wandering to her nape, exposed because of her upswept coiffure. Tiny tendrils wrap around my fingertips. She is exquisite, and I want the entire crowd to know it, but her terse profile betrays exactly what she thinks of that notion. In the woman’s own words, it is a hard no.

“Perhaps we should leave.” By New York standards, the night is still young, and she is imbibing her third pink drink. She should be comfortably buttered soon. “We can go back to your condo, and I can show you how delectable you truly are in that dress…”

“You mean the one I altered myself because I decked the seamstress so hard, she threatened a lawsuit if I didn’t leave the shop?” She sends me a grimace identical to its fifty predecessors. “The seamstress used by half the damn industry in this city? Maybe the entire East Coast?”

“And, apparently, hated by all of them as well.” I add my palm to the gentle rubs at the back of her neck. “Did you not see the backlash to her rant on her Twatter page?”

I fathom not why that makes her choke on her drink in laughter, but my chest warms with the success of eliciting her happiness.

But only for a moment.

Her face twists once more. A defeated sigh rushes from her. “But now, the Hemline guys will only think of me as the badass vlogger who laid out the bitch seamstress and nothing more.”

As I watch her swipe at the drops leaking from the corners of her eyes, I gather her close and caress the side of her neck. “I confess, I am confused,” I murmur. “Is badass not a good thing?”

She swivels her head, attempting a nod. “Technically, yes—but not when it’s the only thing. Not when that’s the only category I fit into for them now. Not after years of working so hard with Dmitri to do things in a better way, to make a bigger difference. Facing up to so many who wanted to write me off for my double-digit dress size.” She sniffs, eyeing me wryly. “Little hoochies just like Refinna.”

I tighten my frown. “So, the hoochies are the ones who consider it acceptable to play the strumpet with another woman’s man?”

“No.” She pivots around by the waist, sloshing part of her drink on her hand. “Of course not.”

“So Refinna was different than the others.”

“Yes.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “No. I mean—what she did shouldn’t have set me off that way, because technically, you’re not—”

“What?” I scoot a finger beneath her chin and gently lift. “I am not…your man? Is that it, Alessandra? You do not want to assign that to me? It feels better not to?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it is all right if you want to, ma chérie.” I curve my hand up to stroke my thumb across her cheek. “Or even if you need to. I am not here to frighten you, mon miracle. I only want you to feel adored. Beautiful. Protected. Safe.”

Her nostrils flare. Her fingers tremble as she sets aside her drink. “I’m not sure I’ll feel safe about anything again, Max.” With her head still ducked, she whispers, “Especially after you’re gone.”

She finishes by lifting her head, though instantly attempts to hide from me again. To shield her tears, now glistening tracks down her cheeks, from me. I refuse to accept that. I need to see all of this.

I need to see all of her.

I lift her chin once more.