Blake arches his right brow. “About time travel?”

“That, yes, but also about…me and my ability to do it.”

“About as much as you do,” he says honestly. “This isn’t normal. I’m not sure how long it’ll last. I don’t think anyone is. You’re, in some ways, a new breed of time traveler—don’t let that go to your head.”

“Already has.”

“I could’ve sworn your head looked bigger. But I do know that you need to learn how to control it. Because what you don’t want happening is you time traveling to the wrong time period and dying or getting stuck or jumping at the worst possible time or… Well, a lot of things can go wrong.”

“Wait, sorry, pause. That can happen?”

“Amy Grant. My mom’s great-grandaunt. Traveled back to the fifteenth century and landed in a river. Couldn’t swim. Drowned. Ian McIntyre. My father’s grandfather. Traveled back to the Civil War. Stood in the path of a musket and jumped back just in time to die on the living room floor. Oliver…”

I hold up my hand. “I get it.”

“You sure? Because I have about a dozen more.”

“What changed? Three days ago, you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“A lot can change in three days.”

“Your mother forced you, didn’t she?”

“Correct.” He juts his head toward the living room. He walks. I follow.

When I enter the room, Blake’s already sitting on the couch, his right leg under his left.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Well, that doesn’t sound good. But what other choice do I have? Right now, Blake is my only hope if I want to understand any of this.

“Let me guess, you’ll tell me about time travel—”

“And, in exchange, you’ll do something for me in the future,” Blake interrupts.

And there it is.

I cross my arms and shake my head. “A blank check IOU? Those never end well for the recipients.”

“You know what doesn’t end well? My mother as your teacher. She’s a tyrant, Andre.”

“That’s just what men call a woman who has the confidence to demand the best results from the people around her,” I say, quoting word for word what Isobel once said to a guy in a movie theater who called her a bitch for outsmarting him in trivia.

“Oh my God,” Blake groans, flopping back on the couch. He rests his feet against the arm of it, covering his eyes with his forearm. Lying there, he lets out a loud breath, which for a moment makes his abs look even more defined than they already are.

“Wouldn’t you rather work with me than my mother? Someone your own age? Someone dashing and charming and with a six-pack?”

“Are you flexing your abs right now?”

“Are you looking?”

I shake my head. I totally was.