Page 9 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“And once again, I second that emotion,” Raegan quips.

“Are you two going to stop sometime soon?” I go ahead and snarl it. “Look; I have to keep up this pace—”

“Why?” Drue ripostes.

“Because I have to.” The reasons for my ambition, which they’re both acutely aware of, are more suitable for reiterating over tequila shots at midnight, not in the middle of a French rose garden beneath a diamond-bright sun. “Besides, someone has to be the leading fashion industry advocate for girls with game like this.”

I end it with enough sass to allow for a hips-and-ass combo shimmy, emphasizing the generous curves that have become my distinctive calling card to design houses across the world. I’m unashamed about the motion and undaunted about my achievement. Speaking up for women who’ll never be a size two has been empowering for them and me.

“Hey. We get it, okay?” Drue pushes in for a sisterly side hug. “And we’re proud as hell of you for all of it too—but dolly, all work and no play doesn’t make you dull; it makes you dead. I’m serious, Allie. You’ve got to stop and smell the flowers sometimes.”

“And the wine!” Raegan punctuates that by flagging down a liveried butler who’s entered the garden bearing a gold tray with crystal wineglasses. I follow her motion, deciding I can definitely get on board with this part of the adventure. The conclusion isn’t just about the booze. The hunk bringing the nectar, with his shoulders bulging under his black suit, is a nice additional perk.

“Oh.” Drue drawls her approving vote. “Ohhh, yes. Lots and lots of wine.”

As I accept the glass of lush mahogany liquid, I catch the server admiring my figure, clad in a Mac Duggal custom dress that catches my legs a few inches above the suede boots. He winks. I absolutely wink back.

Hmmm. Maybe this surprise trip will have its merits after all.

And I really owe it to this pair of wonderful wenches, who jumped through hoops I can’t fathom to make it happen.

Shouldn’t I give it all a try, if just for them?

The sun is a welcome bath of warmth on my face. The wine is a delicious buzz in my veins. And that butler is still glancing over like I’d be a nice replacement for his afternoon snack. I’d not normally take up a stranger on such a thing, but Paris Fashion Week barely gave me the chance to sleep, let alone rub one out in the shower. And there are a few special foil packets stowed in my luggage—for special occasions.

Maybe this is one of those occasions.

Maybe, in light of that, I can suck it up and survive on sketchy internet for a few days.

A thorough sigh leaves me. It’s interrupted by my friends’ stare down. They’re peering like we’ve stepped into one of those DIY decorating shows and they repainted my apartment purple while I was out to dinner.

“Okay, okay.” I finally throw my hands up. “I’ll give it a go. Besides, I can probably spin this all into a bigger feature…” As I give in to some creative thoughts, I tap my chin with a finger. “Yeah. That’ll totally work. I’ll take lots of footage and then edit it into a longer piece. Something like No Parlais Wi-Fi, or—”

“Stop!” As Raegan stomps over, her features pinch tighter. “Are you still contemplating work? Even right now? Look around you! Alessandra Sophia Fine, you’re the reigning mistress of all this!”

I tilt my head the same angle as hers. “Even monarchs have to work, Raegan.”

She grimaces harder. “Uggghhh.”

“Hey. I’m trying.”

“Not very hard!”

“I’m twenty-five today, baby—not sixteen. And you’re right. This is all lovely, but we’re not at summer camp anymore. I can’t just sneak away with you guys to knock back Fireball shots in the woods.”

“Exceptional point.” Drue lifts her glass, looking prepared to give a toast. “But the Paris shows wrapped three days ago, missy. Your vlog has been uploaded and all your print articles submitted. Don’t think we didn’t check.”

I glower. “You guys suck.”

She grins. “Only when we’re asked nicely.”

“I guess…I can send some basics to Dmitri and let him run point on emails for a few days.” My business manager, in all his bustling glory, will actually be in control-freak heaven about this. Yet Drue’s right; there’s not a lot for him to control right now. Every major fashion hub on the planet is still in a post-Paris coma. If I check in a couple of times a day, there’s nothing stopping me from taking my first five days off in—

When?

I ignore the chasm that opens in my mind as an answer.

“Shall I have Christophe take your bags up to your chamber, milady?” says Henri De Leon. Hottie Butler apparently double-duties as the place’s bellman.