She cut him off with a derisive huff, holding up her hand to silence him. “I’m speaking now, and for starters, I didn’t pilfer a dress.” She pointed at the limp garment dangling from his fist. “That’s a smock. Farmers wear them to cover the rest of their clothing from the elements. Plus, see how loose it is? You’ll get much more ease of movement than ladies do, strapped into corsets with so much whalebone or cording that we can scarcely breathe.”
“I’m not the fashion type,” he mumbled. “More of a jeans and T-shirt guy, you know?”
Her blank face told him that she didn’t. Of course not. She was dressed like she starred in one of those costume dramas that sent him snoring before the first waltz.
Here it was the norm for guys to wear micro pants, and God forbid showing any bare chest. If she saw the inside of the Regals locker room, she’d have a stroke. This time period was too different. Too uptight. Too two hundred fucking years ago. What washe going to do? A dozen questions crept to the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back.
He needed to get out of here, stat. If a pathway to the past opened, then it was only logical that it could unlock in the other direction. He’d tried diving back in when she was off looking for clothes, but nothing lurked under the water but mud and weeds. No one was coming to the rescue—it was on him to figure out how to escape.
He poked his tongue into the side of his cheek, a headache brewing. Somewhere, apparently in another dimension, a bottle of ibuprofen sat in the top drawer of his dresser at the B and B. Regrets were useless, but if he’d only stuck it in his jacket pocket before heading to the pub. He had a feeling he’d need some painkillers in the coming... Damn it, how long would he be trapped here? Regular folks lived by a clock or a calendar. He was a pro athlete. He lived by a schedule. Practice days. Game days. Team meals. Off days. Since being out on medical leave, he’d gotten disoriented. Lost track of days and sometimes his purpose. And now this...
“Oh, do make haste,” she snapped, glancing over her shoulder. “Should anyone chance upon us in your current state, we’d be marched straight to the nearest altar. And I can assure you that matrimony does not feature on my list of intentions.”
“For real?” He paused. The last thing he wanted was to put her in a compromising situation. “Sorry. I’m serious. You didn’t ask for this, and I don’t want to cause any problems.”
She met his gaze and then looked away. “Apology accepted as long as you understand that from this point on, I insist that you notify me whenever you remove even a stitch of clothing. Afford me the courtesy to remove myself.”
“That’s absolutely fair.” Who cared about clothes? He had bigger things to worry about and she’d made a genuine effort to source this smock from God knows where, so time to put up or shut up. There wasn’t a chance he’d fit in here, but he could do his best to look the part.
He slipped the garment over his head. It stretched tight across his chest and the sleeves weren’t going to cover his wrists. “It doesn’t fit.”
“It will have to suffice,” Lizzy ordered, cutting off any more complaints in a preemptive strike. “And if you remain like that, a bird will relieve itself on your lip.”
He jerked back. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s an expression my mother used whenever I was petulant as a child. And the way you hold your mouth like so.” She mimicked a sulky expression, lower lip pushed out. “I don’t care where you come from. That’s a pout in any time.”
He snorted. “Whatever you say.”
“Yes. And I say pout,” she muttered, as she turned to start walking. “Gather your things.”
He shoved his Regals shirt and jeans into his down jacket, compressing the entire thing under one arm before giving chase. If fate existed, then why in the hell had it forced him to travel two hundred–plus years, not to save the world or do anything heroic... just to bicker with this woman? But to give proper credit, she was taking this all in stride in a way that was remarkable.
She was scrappy.
He liked scrappy.
“We’ll go through the rocky field. Wait. That won’t do. There’s that farm with the seven children. No. It must be the forest. Thepath will be muddier in this weather, but it’s direct.” She glanced over, brows furrowed. “I’m choosing the best way to move unobserved.” She gestured as he slid on his sneakers. “Because those shoes don’t belong here.”
“None of me does.”
A few hours ago, his top concern was being benched for the season. Now he was dressed as if for a Renaissance festival, caught up in a Tom-and-Jerry routine with a woman who seemed genetically engineered to push all his buttons. He had no idea where he was going or what was going to happen next. Lightning forked in the sky, and thunder cracked again, closer this time.
Heading toward the forest’s edge, he couldn’t help but notice the absence of streetlights, stop signs, cars, and phones. The back of his neck tingled. It was as though this place was both familiar and alien, sort of like landing on Mars and discovering it resembled the park near his house. The notion hurt his brain. Maybe he should have gotten drunk last night.
It didn’t help that Lizzy was giving him another one of her assessing looks. “Is everyone...” She slammed her mouth shut. “Never mind.”
“If we’re going to be a team, we need to trust each other.”
Lizzy scrunched up her nose, making it look like a tiny accordion, a hint that she wanted to start yet another argument, but raindrops began falling in thick plops.
She startled, hugging herself. “Pardon me. I don’t care much for storms.”
He glanced at her eyes and his chest tightened as he noticed fear clouding her formerly vibrant expression. The only way he could think to calm her down was to keep the conversation going, leaving no room for silence, or a chance for her thoughts to spiralout of control. “Hey, remind me how far we are going again? I got a bit distracted with all the clothing excitement.”
“A-about a m-mile,” she stammered.
He flicked moisture from his hair. “Then we might as well accept that we are going to get wet. You’ve already seen me half-naked. No secrets, all right?” His attempt at humor was a bit clumsy, but his intentions were good. “What were you going to say a minute ago?”
