Page 92 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“There’s the bonus.”

“His name is Wolfe.”

“Bonus revoked.” After we both giggle, she slides a hand over mine. “So. How are things really going?”

“With Mom? Actually, pretty good.”

“You know the subject of her was dismissed at Wolfe, right?”

“Yeah.” I go ahead and pour all the dismal drops of my heart into the syllable. “I know.”

Drue folds her other hand over mine. She squeezes so hard, my plastic cape crinkles from the movement. “It’s going to ache for a while, hon.”

“Thanks, Eeyore.”

She smirks. “But you also know it’ll turn out all right.”

“But will he be all right?” I sit up straighter just for the benefit of filling my lungs with more air. Wasted effort. My chest burns. My throat swells. The awful pressure rises, threatening to overcome every inch of my sinus cavities. With all the cosmetics they’re shoveling onto my face, I can’t even blink the tears away.

When the makeup gals step away for a second to debate my lip color, I use the moment to attempt a full stop on my emotional bullet train. Instead, I lock Drue’s gaze with the intensity of mine—and pin her with the question I swore I wouldn’t wield.

“What do you think?” I get down another hard swallow. “Did you ever believe him?” I rasp. “I mean, did you ever seriously believe he was…that he came from…”

My tightening throat makes it impossible to say the rest. Drue helps the effort by scooting a hand under the plastic and clutching my hand again. With the purpose of her grip, she’s already rendering her reply to me.

That her reply doesn’t really matter.

That at this point, even if I choose to believe Maximillian De Leon’s insanity, that doesn’t matter either.

But there’s no more time for moping.

At once, the universe punches into fast-forward mode. The makeup team whips away the plastic cover, and I look up—

Into the face of an utterly glam beauty.

My skin is dewy and flawless. My eyes are smoky and expressive. My hair is teased and luxurious.

Holy shit.

I barely recognize this stylized siren. I mean, I’m gorgeous—but I’m a stranger.

But before I can get nuanced to the point of morose about that, Dmitri sweeps in and helps me out of the chair. I step into the red-bottomed shoes I also splurged on for this outfit, and we’re strutting out for the grip-and-grin with Hemline’s corporate honchos. Flashbulbs pop. A small crowd starts clapping. Dmitri’s boy toy posts a video snapshot of the moment and excitedly reports the skyrocketing Likes figures.

It’s a dream. A crazy, colorful, beautiful dream.

But not a dream come true.

Not anymore.

Not without the man of my dreams here too.

No. Not just the man of my dreams. The person of my heart. The match of my soul…

What’s he doing right now? Is he thinking about me too? Is he watching the planes on Teterboro’s tarmac and thinking about how we spent the flight over here from France? Does he miss me yet? Does he miss me at all?

All those questions, and so many more, bombard my brain as I’m guided to the “Hemline Daily” set. Dmitri delivers me to the seat next to the show’s anchor, a vivacious blonde with legs to her neck and a face full of Botox. All hail Connie Filigree. The woman maintains that’s her real name, but she’s also told the world she’s only twenty-six. Whatever. More power to her. Why is everyone so hung up on those numbers, anyway? In the end, isn’t time the ugly rival we all want to punch like a snotty seamstress? I mean technically, Max is two hundred fifty-eight…

I laugh at that musing.