Page 10 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“Ah—oui,” I stammer. “Of course. My chamber.” I throw another glance Christophe’s way. If I’m going for this getaway thing, I’m jumping in with both feet and my whole libido. No time like right now to start.

After Christophe takes my luggage from the driveway, I tip and release the driver—longing to take back the words as soon as he fires up the car’s engine. As he accelerates back toward the main road, the tires send gravel skittering. The churned dust lingers on the air like dystopian murk. The impression is intensified as soon as the De Leons follow Christophe back into the house.

For some reason, I laugh at my musing while casting a grin Raegan’s way. “All right, Tigger.” I purposely use the nickname now. Drue and I bestowed it on her in high school, when it was clear she was destined to become our squad’s Type-A social planner. “What’s first on the agenda?”

The woman starts her reply with a cute brow waggle. “I think the birthday wench just supplied the best answer for that.”

Drue slides out a sneaky grin. “Everyone snap up. She totally did.”

“I did?”

Rae grins with mischievous triumph. “Camp tradition, baby. It’s time to sneak into the forest.”

“With just one teeny-tiny upgrade.” Drue smirks while lifting a flap on her satchel. I join Raegan in peering inside the compartment—and then cheering at the sight of three sizable bottles nestled inside. Their necks are wrapped with golden foil centered by ornate labels that match the crests carved into the mansion doors.

“It’s Crémant,” Drue states. “From the estate’s private cellar. And Henri swears it’s way better than Fireball.”

“Gee. You think?” Raegan quips.

I laugh longer and harder than before. “Oh, hold the damn phone. Better than Fireball?”

“Seriously.” Rae nods. “Because what says erase all your cares better than alcohol that tastes like cinnamon toast and gasoline?”

When Drue adds her giggle to ours, I know we already have a real memory book moment for the trip.

But it also confirms that I have to face an annoying truth.

That maybe, damn it, they’re right.

Maybe it’s time I do stop to sniff a few posies. Get lost in a forest. Get drunk beside a stream. Let a local hunk ravage me at midnight. What’s working hard if I can’t play hard too?

God, I hate them for being right.

But have never loved them more.

And with that thought, I turn and playfully smack both their asses. “Into the woods, girls.”

“Into the woods, baby.” Drue adds her droll grin.

“Into the woods, goddesses.” Rae sing-songs her version. Of course.

Into the woods.

Where we’re supposed to find stuff like enchanted apples and princes in disguise, right? Where true love’s kiss and a fairy’s wand will make the world perfect, right?

And sometimes there’s just getting too damn carried away with things.

Because here’s the deal.

I absolutely believe in searching for a better world—just not in trusting that Prince Gallivant is going to help me find it. Real life and real relationships take a special brand of commitment—an element that isn’t in my DNA if I’m looking to Angelo and Launette Fine as my proof of concept. And why count on a glittery godmother to create my magical ball gown, when I’ve got hundreds to be dazzled by every new fashion season? Best of all, I’m getting paid for the gig. The only spell that makes sense is the one I’m creating for myself.

The only enchantress I’m banking on is the one with curves and words and the drive to do something with them. The badass who looks back every morning from the mirror.

Or so I keep fighting to tell myself.

Hours later, that fight gets easier when I’m staring at my reflection in a sparkling forest pond.

The pool, fed by a small waterfall, is filled with jade and turquoise eddies that smear my reflection into dreamy layers. Damn, I’m gorgeous. Or is that the Crémant speaking? Okay, it’s probably the Crémant.