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But there’s no doubt that, thanks to Mason, I’m now able to see this painting in a whole new way.

37

The next two days race by in a blur of classes, library cram sessions, a final session with Dr. Lucy, and what feels like endless fittings for the clothes I’ll bring to Renaissance Italy. And with Braxton’s schedule being equally busy, we’ve barely had a chance to catch up.

So by the time I get to Halcyon, Gray Wolf’s version of a speakeasy, wearing a roaring twenties–style dress for Elodie’s party, Braxton’s the last person I’m expecting to see.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my heart kicking up a few beats as I watch him cross the room to meet me.

“I missed you,” he says. “So I arranged for some alone time, before everyone arrives.”

I squint in confusion. “But Elodie texted. She asked me to get here early, so…”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he says. And when he grins, I can’t help but feel a twinge of discomfort. I mean, while it was nice of Elodie to help Braxton arrange this, the idea of them plotting together makes me feel weird. Especially considering their history. Not to mention my own complicated history with her.

“You make an amazing flapper,” he says, giving me an appreciative once-over.

“And you make a really great Gatsby.” I gesture toward his white flannel suit. “Maybe we can visit the roaring twenties together someday?” I smile at the thought.

“At the moment,” Braxton says, “I’m far more interested in this timeline, in this”—he makes a wide sweep of his arm—“very odd space.”

It’s a fever dream of a room. Decorated with strange and random objects Trippers have brought back from various times. There’s a death mask said to be cast from the face of Dante Alighieri, a battle-torn Viking shield, and of course, the creepy jewel-encrusted skeleton in the glass case that, according to Elodie, is one of Braxton’s more illustrious finds.

I jab a thumb toward the piece. “Rumor has it that’s one of your donations.”

Braxton laughs. “Why would you ever believe such a thing?”

“Maybe it’s your taste for the macabre, or at least when it comes to art.”

“Only when it comes to art.” He hooks my arm in his and leads me toward the dance floor that, with a brisk wave of his hand, transforms into a blanket of fluffy white hologram clouds as the ceiling glimmers and glows like the sun.

“I can’t remember the last time I felt the warmth of the sun,” I say, but then I do. It was just after Braxton bailed me out of jail. I was standing on the sidewalk, feeling warm, free, and completely ignorant of everything soon to come.

Being from California, it’s weird how I don’t miss the sun nearly as much as I would’ve thought. But what’s even weirder is how easily I’ve let go of pretty much everything else.

The music swells through the room, pulling me away from my thoughts as Braxton circles an arm at my waist. “Do you recognize it?” His eyes fix on mine as the two of us swirl through a hologram sky.

“It’s an old one,” I say, knowing he’s referring to the song, a beautiful string-quartet version of “Brighter than Sunshine.”“I’m just surprised you know it, considering how it’s from the new millennium and all.”

Braxton laughs. “I’m not all Mozart all the time, you know.”

As we continue to dance, I hear the song’s lyrics play in my head, and when it reaches the part about history and destiny, I get why Braxton chose it. It seems so specifically about us, I know without a doubt that, from this moment on, I’ll never listen to it the same way again.

Tipping his lips to my ear, Braxton says, “The moment I first saw you, it was like a switch had been flipped. Suddenly all the darkness that engulfed me—a darkness so familiar I no longer noticed it—was illuminated by a light so warm and bright, I knew right then it was you I’d been seeking all along.”

My heart swells as I take in his beautiful face. The hard angles of his jaw, the finely sculpted cheekbones, that irresistible bend in his nose, the lock of wavy brown hair that spills into those deep, ocean-blue eyes that sear into mine.

He lifts a hand to my cheek and touches me so tenderly it’s all I can do to breathe.

“Tasha, I—”

No.

Absolutely not.

I’m not ready—I’m not—

A wave of panic rolls through me. I have to stop him—stop him from speaking those three life-changing words.