Page 29 of Misadventures with a Duke

Damn it.

Of all the reaction scenarios I played out for Bastien in my head, this wasn’t one of them—but it should’ve been. To a guy like Bastien De Leon, who’s clearly more into the rough-and-tumble side of court life than his brother, magic doesn’t mean frogs, princesses, and disappearing warts. For him, it’s curses, snakes, and certain damnation—like the kind he’s clearly convinced he’s facing now that he believes I’m not his real Magique.

In his mind, I’m now the fraud who ripped him away from her. Who tore him from his world. Who even “imprisoned” his brother in a “box.” Insult atop all that injury, I got him naked and nasty before confessing to any of it.

“Naked!”

I gasp it out while sliding on the polished foyer tiles. I look down, blatantly reminded that my attire is nothing but a pink tank top and Fruity Pebble boy shorts.

“Oh, God. Nasty.”

Though technically, I’m still dressed in more than he is.

“Shit, Shit, shit,” I spew during my limp-sprint back into the bedroom. It feels like an hour instead of a minute before I find yoga pants and a basic hoodie to throw on. I indulge an extra ten seconds to shove into my Crocs too. Usually, the plastic clogs never see the light of day beyond quick tromps to the park or pool, but every rule has an exception.

It bears repeating, albeit in my reluctant mutter, as I scoop my phone off the top of the dresser. “And it’s six thirty on a Sunday,” I add. “Nobody’s even out walking their dogs right now.”

Clearly, I’ve never been a dog owner.

I’m forced to admit it in full as soon as I finish the elevator ride and burst out onto the street in front of Allie’s building. It’s not a complete dog parade but way more leashes, poop bags, and eyes on my smudged plastic shoes than I expected. Under other circumstances I’d be in heaven, grabbing as many snuggles with the furballs as possible. But there’s no time for that fun because I can’t see Bastien anywhere.

Not a single glance of his fine ass in those luscious breeches or the torso rising from that waistband in its musketeer-worthy glory. I even still myself and listen for extra sounds on the air. Anything abnormal from the cars, motorcycles, bicycles, boats, and airplanes that form their usual twenty-four-hour symphony. Something like a surprised outcry from anyone along the boulevard. Better yet, a spike of Bastien’s discernible growl.

Everything stays too predictably normal.

Meaning my pulse rate edges toward cardiac arrest range.

Still, I ignore the Pomeranian taking a Labrador-sized dump in front of me and frantically look right and then left. Though the first option beckons with the sparkling stretch of the river, getting there from here equates to crossing the FDR, which would intimidate the staunchest d’Artagnan.

My instincts tell me that Desperado has ducked left, toward the blocks where trees with new spring leaves arch toward each other over the avenues. But also toward the heart of Midtown East—and beyond that, more of Manhattan’s confusing tangle. Oh yes, mulls the girl who grew up in this city.

The girl who, seven blocks later, has run herself out of breath—with no scowling and shirtless hunk to show for her efforts.

A man who’s never experienced anything like sidewalks, crosswalks, and skyscrapers before.

A man she’s officially lost in a city of millions.

I moan in frustration while smacking a palm to my forehead. They’ve predicted a heat spigot for today, which explains the slide of my phone in the sweat of my other hand.

At once, I break into another anguished sound. I forgot to slip my spare key card to Allie’s apartment back into my storage sleeve.

It’s time to call in reinforcements. Probably in more ways than one.

“Mmmph. Huhhhlo?” comes a sleepy mumble after I’ve hit one of my top redials.

“Hey. I know you’re in recovering-from-the-set mode,” I blurt, “but this is kind of life-or-death.”

“What?” In nanoseconds, Drue pops from half-comatose to fully juiced. No sorting hat needed to know she belongs in the fifth house: Hyperthorpe. “What is it? Are Fashion Wench and Prince Hottie okay?”

“Yeah. Of course,” I assure, wishing I could chuckle at the nicknames she uses for Allie and Max only when they’re not around. “She texted me earlier from FCO. They’re safe and should be having hot Roma sex by now.”

“They’d better be.” Her grumble is rough and low. An equally scratchy sound has me picturing the frustrated hand she’s running through her bright turquoise waves. “So why the panic dial? Is the apartment okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I hope so.”

Another grunt. “Which means what?”

“I sort of locked myself out.”