Page 77 of Faking It Right
“What do you think, Ryker?” Gia asked, grinning as she helped Dad gather the empty dessert plates. “Out of all your past lives with Harley, which one’s your favorite?”
Despite the night being absurdly surreal, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had so much fun at a family dinner. “This one.” I succumbed to the impulse to wipe the chocolate smudge from the corner of his mouth. “Definitely this one.”
Harley’s tender gaze turned my heart into a feral raccoon loose in a garbage dumpster of feelings. The universe shrank to justus and Sawyer making gagging sounds like she was allergic to human affection.
Mom cooed at us. “Aww, that’s so sweet, biscuit.”
“Even with the dramatic past-life stalker?” Sawyer quipped, raising an eyebrow while clearing away the cake crumbs.
I jumped up to help. “Especially with the dramatic past-life stalker. She really tied the whole evening together.”
“To Maylin,” Dad said, raising his glass in a toast as Mom and I returned with coffee. “May she find happiness in her next life, preferably in a galaxy far, far away from all of us.”
“To Maylin!” everyone echoed, clinking glasses.
As we sipped our coffee, the conversation flowed from one ridiculous topic to another. What had started as a dreaded obligation had transformed into an evening we’d recount for years. Every time the laughter died down, someone would murmur “dicked down” or “alpaca stud,” setting us all off again.
After we’d exhausted ourselves joking about our past lives, the conversation drifted to the mundane. Dad shared details about his latest woodworking project he’d started in his workshop when Mom’s phone chimed with a notification. She glanced down at it, then let out a gasp that had us all turning to look at her. “Wow, that sure didn’t take long. Maylin just posted about tonight on her social media. She used the hashtags #CosmicCockblock, #SoulmateStealer, and #KarmicKlepto.”
Mom turned her phone around to reveal a heavily filtered photo of Maylin captioned, “Just met my eternal flame for the eight-hundred and forty-eighth time. He’s gayagain. Mercuryretrograde rejection issoreal. When will the universe stop punishing our love?”
I stared in horror, unable to process what I was seeing. The photo showed Maylin with tears streaming down her face, her makeup artfully smudged to look more like an emotional masterpiece than a hot mess. She’d added some kind of ethereal glow filter that made it look like she was ascending to a higher plane of consciousness through her grief.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned. “She hasn’t even left the building.”
Harley scooted closer for a better peek. “The lighting is actually pretty good. Do you think she had that filter prepped before she even showed up?”
Sawyer snickered. “Absolutely. She’s definitely the type to have a folder of pre-planned crisis posts.”
“Look, she even tagged you,” Mom added. “Although I didn’t give her your information, so that’s a tad unsettling.”
I groaned. “Great, now she’s stalking me across lifetimes and social media. What a combo.”
Mom gave an impressed hum. “Wow, she’s already racked up over three thousand followers!”
“The internet thrives on chaos,” Gia said wisely, sipping her coffee like a sage. “Nothing gets engagement quite like a public meltdown.”
Sawyer leaned over Mom’s shoulder. “Check out the comments. Someone named @PastLifePlayboy wrote, ‘We’ll get him next time. He can’t escape us in every lifetime.’ That’s gotta be her backup date, right? Sounds like Baxter is as delusional as she is.”
I slumped in my chair. “And equally as threatening. Fantastic.”
“Maybe not. I’m checking his profile,” Mom said, her thumbs flying across her screen. She turned her phone around, and I reluctantly glanced at the screen.
I immediately wished I hadn’t.
There, in all his unfiltered glory, was a man who personified sexual charisma like a walking pheromone factory. He lounged across an antique throne, radiating the regal vibes of a ruling monarch.
Dressed in a meticulously tailored Tudor-era ensemble, complete with a crown that looked like he bought it at a prestigious auction, he showcased shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of his own ego. The rich burgundy velvet and gold embroidery made him look like he had stepped straight out of an award-winning historical drama, but with the sex appeal of it opened to reveal his impressive physique.
His blond hair fell in an effortlessly tousled look that framed his chiseled jawline, while his smoldering gaze pierced the camera with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how good he looked. He somehow managed to look both natural and flawless, resting his hands on the ornate armrests with the deliberate grace of someone born to rule.
The caption read, “Kings, queens, and majestic in-betweens, bow before your rightful sovereign. The universe’s gift has arrived. #PastLifePlayboy #SoulTantric #ReincarnationRoyalty.”
“Holy hell,” I whispered in shock.
“I was expecting the Burger King, not King Henry the Eighth of Abs,” Sawyer said, eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.
Harley let out an impressed whistle. “Damn, I came ready to roast, but I’d be willing to worship him at the altar if I wasn’t already taken. He looks like a guy who loves to role-play.”
