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A few weeks. It startles me to think that I might be in the past for that long. I don’t know why. Ben’s been here for two years.

“Perhaps,” Ben says with a shrug.

Mrs. Halloway blinks in surprise at his answer. “Lovely!” She claps her hands, and there’s such delight in her expression that my feelings about her get even more complicated. She’s starving for attention. “Now we’ll just have to convince you to stay longer than a few days.”

“I make no promises.” Ben leans back in his seat. “Miss Granville is, of course, free to accept whatever invitations from you that she wishes.”

I can’t help the eyebrow I arch at him. So magnanimous. It’s not lost on me that Ben has to state this publicly for me to actually accept any invitations I might receive. It’s for my own good, but we’ve set him up as my guardian, and for better or worse, my protection is under his wing.

“Where do you come to us from, Miss Granville?” Mr. Allen turns the conversation in the brief lull after Ben’s statement.

I say the first thing that comes to my head. “Paris.” That feels exciting and daring and something a young woman of leisure might do. It adds more drama to the tale that I’ve had my luggage stolen from me in my travels. Besides, I’ve always dreamed of going there.

Mr. Allen smiles at me. There’s something about this man … it’s not attraction. It’s something else pulling my attention to him. I mean, he’s obviously good-looking. But I can’t put my finger on what it is that keeps my gaze going back to him, like the title of a book I read a long time ago. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite remember.

“Indeed,” he says. “What occupied you in Paris?”

“Friends. From school.” Will Mr. Allen find my short, simple answers rude? I should have thought more about this story. I’ve never been farther east than a school trip to Colorado when I was in high school.

“Very exciting.” Mr. Allen nods approvingly. “And what school do you attend?”

Now I’ve really wrapped myself up in this web. Ben and I didn’t think of any of this when we were straightening out our stories before. In fact, I shouldn’t even have come to dinner until we’d worked out a full history for me. The romance of a fancy dinner in the glory of The Villa’s prime overrode my good sense. I have no idea when my alma mater, UC Davis, was founded—or when they accepted women, for that matter.

“Vassar College, in New York,” Ben answers, and I let out a slow breath of relief that he’s jumped to my aid.

Mr. Allen nods at Ben once and then returns his attention to me. “Studying to be a teacher, I presume.”

“Yes, of course.” I’d like to stick closer to the truth, but I know very little about what Vassar offers, and English literature degrees for women might not be one of them. I’ve been a substitute, before my blog and social media channels provided a good supplemental income to my part-time librarian job. I can totally pass for a teacher if I need to.

I try to keep myself from the general conversation at that point, deflecting any questions that come my way and pointing them back towards Mrs. Halloway. It’s easy to get her to talk about her and Mr. Halloway’s travels in Europe the year before. I just make sure to agree that everything in Paris is marvelous.

As we (finally) leave the dining room, Mrs. Halloway lays a gentle hand on my arm. “I’ll send Martha over with some things for you to wear until you’re able to procure your own wardrobe.”

I smile and I know it’s strained, even though I’m genuinely grateful. This dinner was far more stress than I anticipated, and it’s wearing on me. I want to wake up.

The problem is, I think this might be real.

“Thank you, Mrs. Halloway. You’re so very kind.” At least the formal wording slips off my tongue like I’ve been doing this my whole life.

She tucks her arm through mine in a friendly way. “Please, call me Rebecca. You’re wearing my evening dress, dear. I have a feeling we’re going to be good friends.”

I swallow my panic at that thought—whether that I’m going to mess up and make her question who I am or that I’ll be here long enough for that, I don’t know.

“Me too,” I say instead.

Chapter Four

This new comforter is silky soft and an amazing choice. I sigh as I snuggle it closer to my cheeks. When did I get it? I don’t really remember, but the last bits of sleep are still clinging to me and everything is fuzzy.

Is it just me, or does my pillow smell like lavender?

I don’t remember spraying it before bed…

I do remember my dream. Two handsome heroes, a beautiful evening dress, and a surety that corsets are the worst. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and decide to go back to sleep and slip back into the dream with a few edits.

A soft tap on the door interrupts. I scowl and push back the comforter.

What has happened to my condo? There’s authentic-looking furniture everywhere—a beautiful vanity, a tall, gleaming dresser. And where did my kitchen go? Somehow, overnight, a wall has sprung up between my bedroom area and my sleeping space.