“No!” I look at him, shaking my head, that’s not at all what I meant, not in the least. “No, no, that’s…” I’m quick to wave it away. “It’s not like I wasn’t caught up in the moment too, because I was. I was enjoying her flirtatious game just as much as you were. And, trust me, I’m as surprised as you that this happened. I mean, while I’ve definitely had the occasional thought that seemed out of character, this is the first time one of those thoughts has knocked me right out of character. I didn’t even know this was possible—did you?”

He looks at me and shrugs, always too caught up in the moment to have even bothered with thinking about it.

“But still, now that we’re here…” I pause, wondering if I should really go through with this, then deciding I have nothing to lose. “Well, there is a point I wanted to make, something that recently came to me.”

He waits, waits for me to stop with the prefacing and get to it already.

I press my lips together and gaze all around, trying to organize my thoughts, gather just the right words. I hadn’t actually planned on broaching it, had no intention of going there, and yet, that’s not enough to stop me from turning to him, the words rushing forth when I say, “I’ve been thinking—okay, I’m not sure how to say this, but, you know how every time we come here we choose between my lives?”

Damen nods patiently, though his gaze betrays just the opposite.

“Well, there’s a part of me that can’t help thinking: Why do we always choose between my lives? What if being Damen Augustus Notte Esposito wasn’t your first life?”

He doesn’t gape, doesn’t gawk, doesn’t flinch, shuffle, fumble, or mumble or any of the nervous little time-stalling maneuvers I would’ve gladly bet my money on.

Nope, he just continues to stand there, his face a complete blank, devoid of expression, as though he has no thoughts on the idea I just raised. Looking as though I’d just spoken in one of the few languages he’s not quite proficient in.

“Right before you got here, I used the remote to punch in the numbers—you know, eight, eight, thirteen, oh, eight? I though it might be an important date or something—a time when we both lived before. And even though nothing happened, still, I can’t help thinking it’s a very real possibility. I mean, we both know I lived as a Parisian servant named Evaline, right? And a Puritan’s daughter named Abigail; a spoiled London socialite, Chloe; the artist’s muse,” I point directly at her, “Fleur; and the young slave girl, Emala—but what if you weren’t always Damen? What if you were once, a long time ago, a very long time ago, someone else entirely?”

What if you reincarnated too?

Leaving that last bit unspoken but knowing he heard it just the same. The words swirling all around us in a way that can’t be ignored, even though it becomes immediately clear that Damen has every intention of doing just that.

His stiff shoulders and shadowed gaze are pretty much polar opposites of my glowing face and thrumming body. And try as I might to temper it, it’s no use. I’m so overcome with the excitement of this new idea—this perhaps undiscovered possibility—that I can practically feel the energy shimmering around me. And if I had an aura, no immortals do, but if I did have one, I’m pretty sure it would be shining the most beautiful, brilliant purple flecked with lots and lots of sparkly gold bits, because that’s exactly how I feel.

It’s how I know that I’m right.

But, apparently I’m the only one feeling it. Which means I watch in jaw-dropping dismay as Damen turns and leaves me in a field of blazing red tulips without a single parting word.

I pop out of Summerland and appear back at the house, finding Damen looking visibly deflated as he slumps on the couch.

I glance down at myself, noticing how the flimsy slip of silk is instantly replaced with the jeans and blue sweater from before, just as Damen’s flowy white shirt and black pants are traded for the clothes he chose this morning.

But even though his clothes are transformed, his mood, unfortunately, is not. And as I survey his face, searching for a hint of kindness, an opening of some kind, I get nothing more than a stony gaze in return. So I head for a nearby wall and park myself there, vowing to lean against it for however long it takes for him to make the next move. Unsure what angers him more—my breaking free of the scene, or the idea that he might’ve lived before. But whichever it is, it’s obviously unleashed some kind of inner demon of his.

“I thought we’d moved past this,” he finally says, his gaze landing on mine but only briefly before he’s pacing again. “I thought you were ready to move on and have a little fun. I thought you realized you weren’t getting anywhere, that you were wrong about Summerland, the dark dreary part of it, the old lady—all of it. I thought you just wanted to make a stop in the pavilion so we could have a little past-life fun before we headed off on vacation. Then the minute we finally start to have a good time, you change your mind. What can I say? I’m a little disappointed, Ever. Truly.”

I wrap my arms around myself, as though they’ll ward off his words. It’s not like I was trying to disappoint him; that wasn’t at all what I intended. Still, I just can’t shake the idea that unraveling the old woman’s riddle will lead to a happier, brighter future for us. Which is all I really want, and I know that’s all he really wants too—despite the downer mood that he’s in.