Hiding in a corner, I clutched a half empty flute of champagne.

The dance with Glenn had left me weak-kneed. I’d never had a man make my heart race the way he had, and all we’d done was dance.

Okay. Maybe that wasn’t all.

He’d been watching me all night.

There was something about the way he did it, too. Something that left me feeling exposed and raw and…wanted.

More than once, I had found myself sneaking glances at him, too.

It was the last thing I should have been doing, but I couldn’t help it. Something about him drew me.

I shouldn’t have let Glenn distract me though. Peter had kept asking me questions, and I didn’t know how to answer. Questions about where I went to school, my family, about why I’d chosen to come to California. I’d made up most of my answers, bullshitting my way through most of the night.

Even the things that should have been simple needed to be lies. He asked me about what movies I liked—but if I told him the truth, he wouldn’t recognize most of them. They didn’t exist yet. So I told him The Wizard of Oz. That was an old one. Surely that couldn’t get me in trouble.

It had been a relief when a client of his dragged him away to speak to him. Then Glenn had been there, asking me to dance, and it had made everything so much better...and so much worse. I could still feel his hand burning against my back.

As I walked away from him, for the umpteenth time that night, I found myself wishing all of this was a dream, and the sudden and certain knowledge that it wasn’t led me to accept a glass of champagne—and that had driven me out to the courtyard.

I couldn’t find it in me to go back inside.

This was all real.

It wasn’t a dream.

I was in 1962, and the woman who thought I was her assistant would end her own life soon—and I was attracted to the man who would break her heart and lead her to it.

“I can’t let it happen,” I whispered, staring into the champagne. Florence was too sweet. And regardless of what she thought, Glenn wasn’t in love with her.

I was going to stop this.

“There you are!”

At the sound of Peter’s voice, I barely managed to keep from grimacing. “Oh, hello!” I said—a little too brightly—before taking a healthy swallow of champagne.

“Hiding from me?” he asked with a crooked grin.

Yes. Out loud, I said, “No. I just needed a break from everything inside. It’s been such a long day.”

“I bet it has. Come on. We’ll find a place to sit.” He offered his arm.

We ended up on lounge chairs, and I stretched my legs out and sighed. Wiggling my toes inside my shoes, I decided that whoever had invented heels had been in it solely for the torture aspect and nothing else. I loved a pretty pair of shoes as much as the next girl, but they could be murder on the arches.

I looked up and found Peter staring at my legs. Self-conscious, I went to smooth my skirt down, and realized the hem had ridden up higher than I’d thought, revealing the garters and stockings. I blushed, and he averted his eyes quickly.

An awkward silence stretched between us. It shattered when Peter cleared his throat and asked, “Did you leave a boyfriend behind in Philadelphia, Miss Cruz?”

I thought of Maverick. He hadn’t wanted to speak to me after what’d happened. I’d told my parents I’d needed to talk to him, say I was sorry…something. They’d relented, mostly because I’d convinced them I didn’t really want to talk to Caitlyn.

The sucker punch had come when Maverick had refused to see me.

His mother had tried to be gentle as she explained. He was angry and hurting. He didn’t blame me, of course.

But it hadn’t helped.

Maybe he didn’t blame me, but his entire life had been ruined. He’d lost his future.

And now I was trapped in 1962.

Laughing softly, I said, “The only thing I left behind was a relationship that ended badly.”

“Is that why you look so sad?”

Startled, I looked at him. “Was I that obvious?”

“You have very expressive eyes,” Peter said, a faint smile on his lips. “Everything you feel is right there.”

“It…ended badly,” I said, uncertain about what else to say.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees. “Is that partly why you came all the way out here?”

“Maybe in part,” I hedged. He was nice enough, but there just wasn’t a connection. Maybe it was because I didn’t have the Hollywood mentality that a thirty year age difference wasn’t that big of a deal. Or maybe it was because, every few moments, my gaze would wander to the house, searching for a certain, brown-haired movie star.

Part of me even wished I had even half the interest in the man sitting with me as I did for the man inside the house, the one I’d danced with. It had been a simple dance. Glenn hadn’t even held me all that close, but I’d felt the heat of his hand against my spine, the strength in his fingers clasped around mine, and the intensity of his pale blue eyes burning into me.

He’s supposed to be in love with Florence; she’s in love with him, I reminded myself.

Forcing myself to listen to Peter, I nodded and smiled as he talked about how he’d gotten started in Hollywood. I kept right on smiling and nodding, right up until I heard a familiar voice calling my name.

Florence came toward us, her hand tucked into the crook of Glenn’s arm. She waved at me and let go of Glenn’s arm to come rushing over, a bright smile on her face. She dropped down onto the chaise lounge and stretched her legs out, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

“I love to dance, but it can be so hard on your feet.” She laughed and leaned back on her hands. “You’ve got the right idea, honey. My feet are killing me.”

“Mine too.” I grinned back at her. “You can see where I’m at. I’ve been here the past hour, and you’ve been dancing around in there, the belle of the ball.”

She waved a hand at me. “I’ve gotten used to it. Sometimes, I have to be on my feet fifteen hours a day. Directors can be slave drivers.”

“I think you love it,” I said.

Judging by the way her face lit up, I was right.

“I do.” She shrugged. “Speaking of which, we’re going to have to leave soon. I’ve got an early casting call.”

Dread settled deep in my gut, but I hid it behind a smile. A yawn escaped me and nearly cracked my jaw. “Yes, I’m pretty tired myself.”

“Where are you staying?” she asked as we headed out to the car a few minutes later. The men were walking behind us, and I felt Glenn’s eyes on me as acutely as if he were touching me.

Crap. Where was I staying? Today had been such a whirlwind that I hadn’t thought any further ahead than this party.

“Actually, I was going to ask if you could recommend a hotel.” I lifted a shoulder as she stopped to stare at me. I slowed my steps, offering a weak smile. “I haven’t gotten around to finding a place yet. It’s so hard trying to figure that out from the other side of the country.”

Now Florence wasn’t the only one staring at me.

“What?” I tried not to look put-off by their surprised scrutiny. I couldn’t exactly say it’s hard to find a place from fifty years in the future.

Still, blood rushed to my face, staining my cheeks red. I felt foolish, even though I hadn’t exactly planned to show up in 1962, all homeless and everything.

“I was going to start looking today, but the party...”

Yet again, Florence saved me. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Oh, honey. I am so sorry. That was just thoughtless of me. You know what? You’re not going to a hotel. You’re staying with me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can,” she said firmly. A dazzling smile lit her face. “I’ve got a guest house on my property. You can stay there. Just consider it part of your salary. I never use it, and I hardly ever have company that needs the entire house. When somebody does come, they usually sleep in the big house.”

Feeling like a ten-pound weight had fallen from my shoulders, I gave her a grateful look. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. No more talk about it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”