Miss Woods.

I looked back at the dressing room and stared at the elegant scripted name on the door.

Miss Woods.

How in the hell was this happening?

“Excuse me!”

A short, harried man bumped into me and I jumped, feeling like a scalded cat as I moved out of his way.

My back hit the door, and I closed my eyes. I reached out and gripped the doorknob, fighting the urge to hurl myself back into the room, back into that little hidden space and hug my knees to my chest while I waited to wake up.

I really, really wanted to wake up, but I was too practical to stand there, trying to convince myself that this wasn’t really happening when I could hear things, smell things, see things that were just too real to be a dream. People were bumping into me. People were staring at me. If I was standing there naked, I might have felt a little better—because then I might have believed I was dreaming.

One person in particular was giving me an odd look, and he wore a rather official looking uniform. Fake it until you make it, I told myself and gave him a brilliant smile.

Then I turned and lost myself in the rush of people. I had to find someplace quiet to think, and I needed to figure out just who that guy had thought I was—

Miss Woods.

Oh, shit.

I was already across the room, but still, I spun around and gaped at the door to the room I’d found myself before just a few minutes earlier.

Miss Woods.

Florence Woods.

I felt dizzy all of a sudden. Dizzy and lightheaded. I needed to get out of here. I needed to find my uncle…

You idiot, it’s 1962!

I went to rub my forehead and smacked myself with the necklace. Swallowing, I stared at it, the soft, mellow gold winking at me mockingly. It had only been a few minutes ago that I’d found it. Found this, the diary…

The diary of Florence Woods—the Hollywood sensation who’d killed herself just as her career was starting to take off.

Florence Woods—who was apparently still alive.

Maybe…

I bit my lip and then looked around. If I really was in 1962, maybe it was for a reason.

Maybe I’d found that diary—maybe I’d found that room—for a reason.

And I couldn’t think of a better reason than to keep a young woman from killing herself.

Which meant I needed to find her.

A woman came walking by and her eyes flicked to my bare shoulders and arms, lingered on my jeans before she looked away, distaste clearly written on her face. I stared at her, then at the other women around me, and made a decision.

The first thing I had to do was find some clothes that looked a little less…2017.

* * *

“So what happened to your…” The girl in wardrobe stared at me over a pair of cat-eye glasses that were ridiculously cute. She waved a hand at my chest, then at hers, and I wasn’t sure if she’d bought my mad ad-libbing about how the airline had lost most of my luggage and I hadn’t wanted to be late so I’d come straight to the studio anyway.

“I was wearing this adorable little cardigan,” I said breezily. “But on my way, somebody spilled coffee all over me.”

She frowned.

“And I’m allergic. I couldn’t even have it on my skin.”

“You’re allergic to coffee?” She looked appalled.

Oh, shit. Bad idea, Maya! “No! It was the milk. I’m allergic to milk! And I started breaking out almost immediately—the man wasn’t even drinking real coffee—it’s just coffee-flavored milk.”

“You must have bumped into Harry Gowens.” She rolled her eyes and her skepticism was replaced by sympathy. “He’s doused me once or twice, and the jerk doesn’t even bother to apologize. He usually sends one of the girls to go and get it, but if he can’t find somebody…look out. He’s all thumbs.”

She walked around with a speculative eye, then gave a short nod. “I’ve got something that will work.”

A few minutes later, I was tugging on a pair of boots that went up to my knees, while smoothing down a skirt that just barely covered my crotch.

Self-consciously, I checked my reflection in the mirror and was almost surprised at the sight of the woman staring back at me. She looked…younger, but somehow more sophisticated. The soft colors were super flattering on me, and I wondered why I’d spent so much of my life in jeans. Of course, jeans were more comfortable than the go-go boots, but wow… those boots did amazing things for my legs.

“You look splendid.”

“Thanks.” I gave her a grateful look, then went back to eying myself nervously. My hair was definitely not in fashion, but the wayward curls rarely cooperated with fashion anyway, so that was nothing new. “Now…if I could just find Miss Woods.”

“Try the library. If she’s not in her little hidey hole, she’s probably there, going over her lines.” The girl winked at me.

The library was just that—a mock-up of a real library. I wondered if it was part of a movie set, but people kept wandering in and out, so if it had ever been part of a set, it seemed to have been co-opted by everybody, including one Miss Florence Woods.

She wasn’t hard to find once I finally found my way there.

She was the only woman in there who looked like she had some sort of light inside her—she was that damned beautiful.

“Miss Woods?”

She looked up at me, her mouth puckered into a slight frown, one that was echoed on her forehead, causing a tiny little crease between her wide, lovely eyes.

Wow. Those eyes. They were blue-green, like the sea lapping at the white beaches of exotic tropical islands.

“Hello.” She smiled at me, and that smile was as sweet as I would have expected.

“I’m…Miss Cruz.” Was there another Miss Cruz lurking around, I wondered suddenly.

“Oh!” She popped up off the chaise and grabbed my hands. “You’re my new assistant, aren’t you? Thank goodness! I’ve been going crazy ever since Betty quit. Not that I blame her—she’s getting married, but I need somebody to help me stay…well, together.”

“You look pretty together, if you ask me.”

“Oh, you’re sweet.” She let go of one hand to wave at me, but continued to cling to the other one. “Come on. Let’s go to my dressing room. I’ve only got another twenty minutes or so before the director comes looking for me, and I’d love to get to know you first.”

* * *

“That is just terrible about your clothes! Did the airline have any idea where they might have ended up?”

“No.” I gave her a pained smile. “I called again when I got here, but so far…” I shrugged and gave her a what-can-you-do look. Hopefully luggage got lost in the sixties often enough that nobody would think twice about it.

“Well, you need to have some clothes.” She waved me closer and held out some bills. Two one-hundred dollar bills. “Here. I’ll advance you some money from your salary.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

Two hundred dollars—what was I going to get with two hundred dollars?

But wait. Things were cheaper in the sixties, right?

“If you want, I can find somebody who knows the town. They can help you find a few things.”

“I…um…” Slowly, I nodded. “Oh, there’s a party tonight.” Hopefully she knew about it.

“The party…” Her pretty eyes locked on my face.

“Yes. Peter Hammond found me and wanted me to make sure you knew to be ready by seven?”

She clapped her hands. “Oh! Lovely. Perfect.”

“Ah, he wants me to attend as well.”

“As you should.” There was a knock on the door, and she waited expectantly.

It took me a few seconds to realize I was supposed to answer it.

“Please let Miss Woods know we’re ready.” A round-faced young man stood there, trying to see past me into the dressing room.

I shifted, using my height to block him as I smiled politely. “I’ll pass the message on.”

* * *

Florence clapped her hands as she stared at me. “That color is perfect on you.”

She was practically beaming at me, a smile so big and bright on her face, she glowed with it. I had the insane feeling that I should spin around or something.

Instead, I just smiled my thanks and turned to inspect my reflection in the mirror.

The soft gold did look good on me. The dress was shorter even than what I normally wore, and I had to be extremely careful not to bend over, otherwise I’d flash the insanely sexy stockings and a garter belt I was wearing. I had to admit, I felt slightly wicked in them. A fleeting thought about modeling the lingerie for Maverick danced through my mind, and that was enough to turn my mood grim.

He wasn’t talking to me.

I’d tried to call him, despite my parents insisting against it. I had to; I felt guilty. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been driving. He’d been hurt, had ruined what probably would have been a killer football career, and all I’d gotten was a bump on the head.

It was enough to sour my mood, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him at the drop of a hat, either.

How was he?

That question alone gave me a headache.

It was 1962. He wasn’t even alive yet.

But neither was I—not really.

Yet here I was.

Where was Doc Brown when you needed him?

I could have used some help from a crazy doctor who’d invented a time machine. But despite the fact that I’d seen Back to The Future a hundred times, I couldn’t think my way out of this.

Maybe I’d go to sleep and wake up. Find out this was all a dream.

Or even a bad trip.

If I woke up and found that maybe Caitlin had slid me something without my knowledge, I’d almost be grateful.

“I’m so excited about tonight,” Florence said from behind me, completely unaware of my inner turmoil.

Turning, I offered her a smile, and hoped she wouldn’t see any of my troubles on my face. “Why? What’s tonight?”

She gave me a secretive smile. “You’ll see. So….” She wiggled her eyebrows at me. “About Peter. Is there something…you know…there?”

“Peter?” I frowned at her, confused. I was distracted, really, trying to recall if there was something I’d seen in the diary about a party. I knew there was a guy. My uncle had mentioned him.

Maybe she’d see this guy tonight. What if tonight was the night they broke up?

Inside my bra, the locket I’d found heated and pulsed. I hadn’t wanted to leave it. As crazy as it seemed, I knew this locket was my connection—either to something here, or to my way back home. I couldn’t risk it being lost.

We were descending the stairs of her Beverly Hills mansion as her question finally registered, and I paused to gape at her. It wasn’t the opulence of her home that had me staring at her, although that was jaw-dropping.

“Peter? Something there with…Peter?”

She paused to smile up at me, framed by the luxury of her home. I had grown up with money and luxury was normal to me, but there was something about the utter grandeur of Los Angeles that was just staggering.

“Yes, silly. Peter. He’s a gem, isn’t he? A little older than you, but age doesn’t matter when it comes to matters of the heart, now does it?” A blissful smile spread over her face. “Imagine—your first day here, and you find the love of your life. It can happen, you know. Hollywood. Anything can happen here.”

“I don’t think so. Besides, I’m a little too young to be falling in love as it is.” I laughed, but the look on her face killed my amusement.

“You’re never too young to fall in love.”

“Oh yeah?” I gave her a quick grin, desperate to lighten the mood. “I’m going to hunt down that boy I had a crush on in third grade. I told him that we were going to get married. It’s time to make him step up.”

“You are so funny.” Florence looked delighted.

Despite myself, I smiled. She was so…sweet. Just that. Sweet. I hadn’t ever met anybody who just wanted to be happy, and wanted the same for others. Or if I had, it had been a long time ago. I certainly hadn’t encountered this sort of thing with Caitlyn. Thoughts of my best friend soured my mood, so I shrugged them away.

Thinking about her right now wasn’t going to help anything. “So, who has you so excited about tonight? It can’t be Peter, since you’re trying to hook me up with him.”

It was him. The one who’d broken her heart. I was sure of it. What had Uncle Daniel said his name was?

“You’ll see soon.” She gave me a cat’s smile, and turned to inspect herself in the mirror on the wall behind us. It was large and ornate, something that looked like it was straight out of the 1920s. My mom had gone through an Art Deco phase, and I could just picture her lusting over the piece.

Florence sighed dreamily, reaching out to trace the edges of a rose. There was a huge vase of them on the table, just under the mirror. She must love the flowers, because roses were everywhere, the air heavy with their perfume. She drew one rose from the vase, and turned to smile at me. “You’re never too young to fall in love,” she said again, softly. “When you meet the one, you know. It’s like…” She sighed and shivered, that blissful smile returning to her face.

“Madame.”

We both turned. In the doorway stood a tall, powerfully built man, his skin dark and smooth. He gave me a polite nod, but kept his attention focused on Florence. He was attractive, maybe in his early forties, and he had an incredibly regal air. Eyes a pale gold, he inclined his head. “You have guests pulling up the drive.”

Florence clapped her hands. “Thank you, Harrison.”

“You’re welcome, Madame.” He gave us another nod and turned away.

“Get ready for your first Hollywood party, Maya.” She spun back to her reflection, but then, slowly, she turned to me, hesitation written on her face. “I…well, this is silly, but I feel I should warn you. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a party like this. Everybody is just looking to have fun, but some people have weird ideas of what fun is…you should be careful of what you eat and drink.”

The warning caught me by surprise. Not that I was surprised people might do stupid things, but that she was aware. “Oh?”

I could see her fighting the urge to continue. She didn’t want to say something that might come off as mean, I realized. I didn’t have that problem. “Let me guess…people can be stupid, right? It’s okay. It’s the same back home. I’ll be careful.”

“Lovely. That’s all I want.” She looked grateful.

“Don’t worry. This might be my first party in LA Hollywood, but it’s definitely not my first party where people are trying to have…a good time.” Again, Caitlyn tried to work her way into my mind, but I shut the thoughts out.

I had enough chaos in my head already. I couldn’t go adding to it for no reason.

Harrison, the tall, imposing butler, reappeared.

“They’re coming up the walk,” he said, arching a brow at Florence.

“Oh, right. Yes.” She smoothed her dress down and held out a hand. “Come on, Maya. We can’t be seen waiting in here for them. It’s just not done.”

I might have asked her why not, but she was already dragging me along behind her.

The room we were in now was a little too elegant to be called a living room. A parlor, I guessed. There was no TV. She had several in her home, and they were big blocky looking things that looked like something out of the Stone Age. I supposed, in a way, they were, as far as televisions went. But this room held nothing save for lovely, delicate furniture, art and a baby grand piano.

Drawn to it, I walked over and traced my fingers down its clean surface. We heard somebody knocking, and I glanced toward the entryway.

“Harrison will get it,” Florence said, head cocked. She gestured to the piano. “Do you play?”

“No. My mother does.” To myself I thought, Or she will. This is all so confusing. Where was she now? What would happen if I were to see her? Then, in a daze, I realized she wasn’t even alive yet. It was a staggering thought, a painful one.

“You sound sad. Problems with your family?” Florence came up, resting a hand on my shoulder.

I shook my head. “No, I just miss them.” It was a lie, but how could I explain the kind of problems going on with me and my parents right now?

Harrison saved me from another awkward silence as he appeared in the doorway. “Miss Woods, you have guests.”

I turned with her, and immediately felt like I’d been struck on the head with something hard. Or maybe in the chest. That could explain why I felt so breathless, so dazed.

Wow. Who are you?

The man standing next to Peter was…wow.

He was tall and heart-breakingly gorgeous. Like six and a half feet of lean, rugged manliness. Not too rugged though. His lips were a little too soft for that, his cheekbones a bit too delicate, but not enough for him to be ‘pretty’. His light brown hair was tousled rather than slicked back, making me wonder if he’d come straight from bed. He wore a suit like he’d rather not be in it, but if he had to be, he’d look damn good.

Something in my heart began to ache, and the necklace, tucked inside my bra, heated once more. I had a knot in my throat and a longing, the kind I’d never felt, settled inside me.

He wasn’t looking at me in that moment, and I curled my hands into fists, trying to settle myself before I started swooning like some inexperienced schoolgirl.

Then he flicked pure, crystal blue eyes my way and my heart, already racing erratically, skipped a beat, then two. My chest tightened, making it hard to breathe, and it was all I could do to stay on my feet.

“Oh, hello!” Florence started forward, hands outstretched.

Her bright, happy voice nudged me out of my daze and I had to suck in a breath, remind myself that oxygen wasn’t just suggested, but necessary. What the hell was wrong with me? I appreciated a hot guy as much as the next straight woman, but I’d never felt anything like what I experienced looking at him. It wasn’t just his looks, though I’d be damned if I could figure out exactly what it was that had me feeling like a girl with her first crush.

Except no crush I’d ever had made me so weak in the knees.

Peter was there, dressed in a slick-looking suit, his pale hair neat and tidy, and he was smiling at me. Still feeling out of breath, I managed a feeble smile. “Hi,” I said.

Finally, the other man glanced at me and actually seemed to see me. The sardonic smile on his perfect mouth froze.

Something lit in his eyes, although I couldn’t define it, and it was gone almost as quickly as it had formed. Still, I felt the impact of that look clear down to the soles of my feet, and my toes curled inside my borrowed shoes.

“Gentlemen, it’s so lovely to see you both,” Florence said as she cut between us, breaking the connection.

Mouth dry, I stepped forward so I was next to Florence, but I didn’t look at him right away, not trusting myself just yet.

When I finally glanced at the other man again, he was looking at Florence. I couldn’t blame him. She was like Cinderella in her pale blue dress, with her hair all swept up to reveal an elegant neck. The strand of pearls she wore only accentuated that graceful curve.

Mr. Gorgeous stepped further into the room, followed by Peter. I watched as Florence held out a hand to the still-unnamed man, and my heart fluttered as he accepted it, then bent over and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

Cinderella and Prince Charming, I thought.

Then he slid me a look from under his lashes, and his pale eyes burned with the sort of primal desire that set my skin aflame.

No…not Prince Charming. That was no fairytale prince. He was all devil.

I knew it in my bones.

“Miss Cruz.”

I jolted, then laughed nervously, mortified. To cover it, I smiled at Peter. “I’m sorry. I’m a little more tired than I realized. My mind is wandering.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long day.” He inclined his head. “Are you too tired for the party?”

“I’m never too tired for a party.” With a game grin, I moved to meet him in the middle of the room. Only too late did I realize that had been foolish.

He extended a hand toward me, and I inwardly grimaced as I accepted.

If he tried to kiss it…

Before he had the chance, I gave his hand a quick shake and then pulled my hand away. I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

In the next moment, Florence asked, “Would either of you gentlemen care for a drink before we leave?”

Grateful for the save, I eyed them both, uncertain if I wanted them to accept or not. I wouldn’t mind a drink—was it legal for me to drink now? Was there a drinking age in the sixties?

I didn’t know.

But they both declined, and I decided it was probably best. All of this mess was happening because I’d been stupid, making bad choices about drugs. Was it a good idea to use alcohol, just so I wouldn’t have to think so much?

“I guess we’re ready to go then.” Florence offered her arm to the man I assumed was her date. He still hadn’t offered his name and neither had anybody else. Maybe they just assumed I’d know who he was.

They started toward the door, looking like the perfect golden couple, and Peter held out his arm toward me. I accepted, knowing it would look foolish if I didn’t. We joined them on the wide steps that led out to the walk, and my jaw dropped at the sight of the limo.

Okay, I had ridden in a limo before, but this is something else. “Wow,” I whispered.

“Have you ridden in a limo before?” Florence asked.

“Nothing like this.” It was long and sleek—a Rolls Royce, I was pretty sure—and the driver standing by the door was dressed in a tuxedo.

“You’re in for a treat,” she said. Then, beaming at the man at her side, she added, “Isn’t she, Glenn?”

If he responded, I had no idea what he said.

I was too busy processing what she’d just called him.

Glenn…His name was Glenn.

Glenn.

Son of a bitch.

This was the man who’d broken her heart and driven her to suicide.

Dammit.