“Yeah. I mean, I hope so.”
Another grunt. “Which means what?”
“I sort of locked myself out.”
“Oh. Is that all?”
“Not…exactly.”
“Shit.”
“You’re going to need more bad words than that.”
A lot more.
Thirty minutes later, Drue is actually proving me wrong. She stands here in Allie’s bedroom, her spare keycard in her hand—and zero words on her lips.
She’s so silent and still, I reach up to deliver a small nudge.
“Hey. You believe me, right?”
The question drips with desperation. What am I going to do if she doesn’t?
“Drue?”
“Yeah. Sorry,” she finally says. “Of course I believe you.” But she still stares into the wardrobe as if she wants to retract it right away. I’m not encouraged by her scrutiny of the bed, where the rumples confirm my tale in ambiguous ways at best. “It’s not like I can call you insane, right?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I don’t think this compares to taking that commune vacation with your parents.”
I surrender to a small chuff. “And here I was, thinking you’d drag out the second date with the professional hot dog eater.”
She turns green. Nearly literally. “You mean after the first date that should never have been?”
“Similarly, none of this should have been.” My own words have my chest clenching and my arms spreading. “Maybe…it wasn’t. I mean, what if it really wasn’t? Maybe I really did just dream it. Shit. One glass of wine has never done shit like that to my dreams before…”
“Raegan.”
“What?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t unders—”
“Of course you do.” She tosses turquoise bangs out of her eyes while hooking thumbs into her trendy jeans belt loops. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, but you’re trying to explain it all away. And you were the one refusing to let Allie get away with that shit last year.”
I snort. “Allie had the truth walking around in front of her.”
“And you’ve got it in the form of some impressive beard burn along your neck, as well as an armoire that still smells like a campfire and a story that does you no good to fabricate.”
I clutch at my nape. “Yeah. You’re right. I just wish you weren’t.”
“Then I’m not going to make you feel any better now,” she rejoins. “Because if you’re really after the truth, let’s remember everything we learned of it during the trip to Château De Leon last year.”
I push out a hard breath. “What makes you think I haven’t already?”
She jogs up her chin. “Okay. So have you checked every fact?”
“Twelve times each since this morning.” I hope she sees, as I wave my phone, that the statement’s literal. Even on the toilet, with eyes still bleary, I’d started the fact-checking marathon. “But there’s hardly any mention of Bastien, except as footnotes to Maximillian’s story. But even those are unchanged. They all allege that he was put to death shortly after his parents. So unless someone lied to the historians or went to the block in his place—”
“Oh, fuck me to Christmas.”
Guess I wrote off the profanity too early.
I’d even be laughing about the thought—and damn it, really want to—except that D’s eruption comes with a lot of emphasis. As in, almost too much.
“Does Christmas get a say in that?” I volley, despite detecting that she’s not going to play in the banter. The intensity across her face is still focused on her own device. “D? What is it?”
She doesn’t look up. “Did you search for images in your little web jaunt this morning?”
“Why would I?” The question is valid. “If there were barely any website hits for Bastien, what makes you think an image search would spit back anything different?”
“You mean something like this?”
As she turns her phone around, I lean forward.
Just before I grab the device and drop back, thankful the bed is here to catch my descent.
Correction. My stunned-as-shit fall—courtesy of the label on the painting that she’s found for me. My eyes grow dry because I gawk at the image for so long, wondering if I want it to be real or not. Not getting any clearer answer as I tap on the link and read off the piece’s supposed title.
“The Execution of Bastien De Leon.”
Drue folds her arms and rocks back on her heels. “Except that’s not the Bastien De Leon I remember from the private portrait gallery at the château.”
I nod. “It’s definitely another guy.”
“Says the girl who really knows by now.”
I tolerate her waggling brows, if only because my shock is still playing boss babe with my senses. But I give back as good as I get with a wide and amazed look. “It has to be a crazy coincidence. Another nobleman with the same name—”
“Who was painted like this, the exact same year that your Bastien went to the block?”
I glower. “He’s not my Bastien.”
“Right. Uh-huh.”
“Knock it off.” My narrowed stare gets nothing but her rolling eyes. “You were listening during the part where I said he’s a gallon of whipped cream over someone else, right? And the only reason he cruised erotic city with me last night was because I look like her?”
“Right.” She folds her arms. “And all of that was simply by coincidence, then? Enough to trip a destiny-driven time machine by accident?”
I punch back to my feet. Shove her phone back to her. With matching purpose, I slam the wardrobe’s doors shut. “We don’t know that for certain. I mean, yes, it’s a time travel mechanism. And yes, it’s obvious that another De Leon used it. But because of destiny? You remember the part about him being obsessed with another mate, right? And that he’s lost somewhere in this city because he thinks I’m a witch who took over that woman’s body before shrinking and imprisoning his brother?”
“So…what?” She leans against the dresser. “You going to give up right away just because he’s pining for a woman who’s only bones in the ground by now?”
I drag in a sharp breath through my nose. “You’re implying there’s something to give up on. And before you invoke everything Max and Allie, consider that Max arrived from his jump with an open mind and heart. He was ready to believe in the impossible.”
“Ahhh. Yeah. You’re right.” The words are there but her tone isn’t buying them. “So having to fight a little harder for your own prince’s heart isn’t worth it. I mean, I get that too.”
“Duke,” I snap. “He’s a duke, okay? And I never said anything about him not being worth it.”
“Not in so many words.”
“Not in any words.” Right away, I recognize the priority of more calming breaths. Fortunately, they help with restacking my thoughts in some semblance of order. “Because there’s no heart to be won here, okay? I just want to be sure he stays physically safe until he can wrap his brain around everything. In the process, maybe we’ll learn what really caused him to transport here. But first things first. We’ve got to track him down. I’m damn sure nothing from the eighteenth century, even Paris, France, has prepared him for Times Square in a pre-matinee crush.”