Page 83 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"Mom, I swear to god?—"

"Language! You'll disturb the crystal grid!"

I should leave. Should find a way to sneak out before this gets even more complicated. Before I destroy everything Connor's built with my lies and my chaos and my complete inability to maintain professional distance.

But then:

"Fine," Connor sighs. "One sacred geometry pattern. But then I need to work. And maybe check on something in my bedroom..."

"The bedroom!" His mother gasps. "Of course! We need to cleanse your sleep space! All that stagnant energy..."

"No!" Connor's voice rises slightly. "I mean... the bedroom is already... very cleansed. Very... energetically aligned."

"Nonsense! Your father said you've been distracted lately. Clearly your sleep sanctuary needs rebalancing..."

I look around frantically for an escape route. The windows are forty stories up, so that's out. The closet's too obvious. The bathroom's too small. Which leaves...

"Mom, wait?—"

The door opens just as I dive under the bed.

Because apparently, this is my life now. Hiding under furniture like a teenager while my secret husband's mother attempts to cleanse his chakras.

"The energy in here is interesting," his mother muses. "Very... passionate."

"Mom!"

"What? I'm just saying, there's definitely been some... activity in here recently."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing, even as guilt twists in my chest. Because I shouldn't find this funny. Shouldn't be here at all.

Shouldn't be falling for someone I'm lying to.

"Now," his mother continues, "where did I put that sage bundle?"

"No burning things!" Connor sounds slightly panicked. "The smoke detectors are very sensitive..."

"Pish posh! A little sage never hurt anyone!"

"Tell that to the fire department. Last time."

Something clatters to the floor, rolling under the bed. I hold my breath as perfectly manicured fingers reach for what appears to be a very expensive crystal.

"Oh!" His mother's hand freezes. "What's this?"

Please don't be my phone. Please don't be my phone. Please...

"Is that... a poker chip?"

Oh god.

"It's nothing." Connor's voice turns carefully neutral. "Just a... souvenir."

"From Vegas?" His mother retrieves the chip—my makeshift wedding ring, which must have fallen out of my borrowed clothes. “Ryland Connor Reeves, is there something you need to tell me?"

"Mom..."

"Because your father mentioned something about you being distracted…”

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