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The word hits me, and I nearly fall back onto my bed. Actor! I swear to God, if Story hired some escort to show me a good time again, I’m going to lose it on her.
After I fuck him, of course. I can’t let her money go to waste.
“Alright,” I sigh. “You don’t have to keep the act up.” I wave my hand at him, ignoring the disappointment flooding me.
It’s ridiculous to wish he were a fictional character—actually, no. It’s certifiably insane to wish for that. But there’s still that feeling of disappointment stabbing a hole in my chest, and I know it’s because he’s a real man and not one written by a woman.
“Act?” He looks utterly confused, which really adds to the whole I’ve come to life from your book thing. And, now that I think about it, he smells like he just walked out of the 1800s, too.
I narrow my eyes. “When were you born?”
He looks even more confused at the change of subject. “April 14, 1829.”
My lips tip down as I think. That is Ian MacTavish’s birthday in the book. But anyone could do a quick Google search to know that.
No, he needs to know the answer to something only the real Ian would know.
I tap my chin as I pace in front of him, my eyes on his. What’s something only he would know? Something so miniscule, so random that it wouldn’t be Google-able.
“What happened to the sword you were sharpening by the brook? The one where the fairies visit during winter.”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“Ha!” I point at him triumphantly. “I knew you were a conman!”
He continues staring at me. Does he look a little pale? Maybe. “It cracked,” he murmurs. “It cracked right down the middle.”
“What did you do with the blade?” I ask, still feeling triumphant.
“I buried it.”
Okay, so he got the answer right. But that doesn’t mean anything. He can still be a psycho who likes breaking into women’s homes and acting like he’s Ian MacTavish.
He certainly has the right look for it. But why doesn’t he just do parties or something? He could probably make a killing.
“How are you here?” I ask, hoping to catch him off guard.
“I dinna know,” he rasps.
“You don’t know?” He shakes his head, his eyes boring into mine. “Do you know where you are?”
He looks around, seemingly taking in his surroundings for the first time. “This place…it’s?—”
“Modern,” I finish, and he nods absentmindedly.
“I feel like I’ve been here before. It feels familiar.” My head rears back as he looks back at me. The expression on his devastatingly handsome face takes me aback. “You feel familiar, but I haven’t a clue who you are.”
“I told you, I’m?—”
“Lyric.”
There he goes, rolling that R again. My legs shift together, my throbbing clit begging for attention. If I could just get him out of my room, I could rub one out and find some relief.
His eyes drop to my bare legs, and he inhales sharply. “Where are ye clothes, lass?”
“I’m wearing clothes.” I wave my hand at myself, my oversized shirt hiding any of the goods.
“Ye legs…” He trails off, his voice thick. “They’re bare.”
