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“Mr. Allen’s son?” I shake my head. “No. It was from something I remembered while we were there—a little boy I used to play with as a kid, I think, when I would visit my aunt Vi.” I blow out a breath, flustered about the memory. “I don’t know.”

“Interesting.” Ben grabs a few of his fries. “That’s the name of William’s son.” After studying me for a moment, he goes on. “Mrs. Halloway’s story didn’t end quite as well.” He grimaces.

“Mrs. Halloway?” I tease.

He ignores my jab except for a smirk. A shot of jealousy goes through me. What had Ben and Rebecca Halloway’s relationship been in 1901? I can’t wait to ask him all those questions and spend time finding out everything about his time in the past. And get the details on Miss Swanson. He’s told me far too little about that.

“By the end of her life, she and Mr. Halloway weren’t even living together most of the year. She didn’t go back to The Villa after 1904.”

“Your elopement probably broke her heart.”

“I doubt that.” He downs a couple more fries and then leans forward. “Jealous, Clara?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. I’d like that a lot.”

“And Mrs. Guthrie?” I prod as heat spreads into my cheeks. I was right about enjoying flirting with Ben in the twenty-first century. Then I bite my lip. “It must have broken her heart not to hear from you again.”

He nods, getting serious too. “I left letters with my lawyer should I ‘disappear’ without much explanation to give to both Mrs. Guthrie and William. I couldn’t tell them much, but hopefully they didn’t worry.” His smile returns, and I wish he’d gone on more about his friendship with the two people he grew closest to while in 1901 instead of passing by it so quickly. “She spoiled little Quinten Allen rotten, and the Allens spent plenty of time with her in San Francisco.”

“Do you miss them?” I like the friendship and affection that dominate his expression when he speaks of them.

He presses his lips together in thought, but the seriousness leaves completely. “I missed French fries and hamburgers,” he says with a teasing smile.

Disappointment flickers in my chest at his shallow response. I can only shake my head at him and take a bite of my own hamburger.

“Can we do this again?” he asks, reaching for my hand across the table.

I shoo away the disappointment and let the eager expression he gives me soothe it—that expression makes my heart do that samba thing again. We have lots of time to get to know each other, for Ben to start to trust me with his fears. “Of course.”

Chapter Eleven

I frown at the computer screen, trying to give the right words to my blog post on accurate historical dressing and hairstyles. Do writers struggle with this in their fiction, the frustration with not being able to express the magic in a historical moment?

“What’s that frown for?” Morgan asks from beside me. She’s going over notes from a case she’s assisting on at the law firm where she works. I’d dropped by our old apartment to hang out while she works. She still hasn’t gotten a new roommate, but she’s waved off my inquiries with an excuse about getting a bonus that will cover a few months and saying maybe she should get her own place anyway.

“Can’t figure out the right words for this.” I tap absently at the keyboard.

Morgan flashes a quick grin. “Maybe you should call your boyfriend for help. Doesn’t he know something about history?” She pretends to puzzle over this.

I laugh. Morgan thinks it’s fitting that someone so obsessed with the “romantic past,” as she likes to call it, should meet a guy in the crazy way Ben and I supposedly met. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I correct her, even as heat pools in my cheeks.

“Not your boyfriend yet,” she replies mischievously. I slap gently at her shoulder, but it’s a half-hearted defense. I like Ben. A lot. And that’s exactly where our relationship is going.

“Speak of the devil,” I say when my phone buzzes on the kitchen table where Morgan and I are working.

“Awww. He’s perfect for you. He can read your mind and know when you need him.” Morgan winks and picks up the phone, handing it to me.

I jab at the screen of my new phone—courtesy of Ben—before answering. “Hello?”

“Hey. Are you on your way to The Villa yet?”

“Morgan and I are still working.”

“Can you get here fast?”

Pleasure ripples through me. We keep saying stuff about taking our relationship at a more normal pace—hard when we’ve already discussed marriage, even if that’s off the table now that we’ve returned. “What are you doing at my condo?”