Gloria didn't trust whirlwind romances.
Especially when they involved Valeria Quinn. The girl could sign a six-figure contract in Paris, but when it came to men? Hot mess express.
And this latest stunt? A sudden courthouse marriage to a man no one had heard of?
Gloria could almost hear the Lifetime execs rejecting the script.
Movie star marries a small-town newspaper editor with a beat-up Prius and clearance-rack shoes? Come on. If he'd been a tech bro with social issues and too much crypto, maybe. A rich brat with a yacht and trust fund? Sure. But this guy? There was no logical thread.
So Gloria did what any protective godmother-slash-retired-attorney would do: she arrived at Valeria's Upper West Side brownstone an hour early for their scheduled breakfast. No warning. No texts. This wasn't a social call. It was a surprise inspection.
Click.
The bedroom door creaked open under Gloria's firm hand.
Investigative Mode: Engaged.
Except she wasn't prepared for the scene she walked into.
"Oh my god—Gloria!"
Aiden Reed sprinted up the stairs behind her and collided straight into her back like a defensive tackle. Thud.
Gloria stumbled forward, grabbing the dresser for balance. She spun around, ready to deliver a scathing remark—but stopped cold as her eyes landed on the bed behind him.
Valeria lay curled under a pristine white duvet, only a bare shoulder and the top of her head visible. Two pillows—one untouched, one slept on. At the foot of the bed, unmistakable: a crisp white men's button-down. Not hers.
Aiden followed her gaze and paled.
"Oh, hell," he muttered.
"Babe?" Valeria's voice floated out, soft and syrupy. "What's with all the yelling?"
She was already in character.
No hesitation. No panic.
Just smooth, practiced charm.
"Gloria's here," Aiden whispered, stepping into the room like he'd stumbled into a live taping.
Valeria blinked at the bedside clock. "Gloria, weren't we meeting for breakfast at eight? It's barely seven. You're early."
"I thought you might want food before the airport," Gloria said tightly. "I brought some things."
Valeria flopped back against the pillows with a groan. "We had dinner with my parents last night. And wine. Lots of wine. I'm still seeing double."
"You brought him to meet your parents?" Gloria asked, sharp.
"Why wouldn't I?" Valeria stretched languidly, a picture of domestic bliss. "We're married. They loved him."
She shot Aiden a look.
"They did," he confirmed with a nod. "Her dad gave me a stack of books on composting. Said I'd make a decent farmer someday."
Valeria smirked. "There you go. Official approval."
Then, turning to Aiden with perfect dramatics, she held out her arm. "Come back to bed. Just five more minutes."
She lifted the duvet in invitation.
Aiden forgot how lungs worked.
Her legs peeked out like the setup to a lawsuit. Smooth. Effortless. Criminal.
You're acting, he reminded himself. This is pretend.
Still. No man could look at her and stay logical.
"Alright, show's over," Gloria said, backing out of the room like she needed a shower. "Breakfast is downstairs. Before it turns into art."
"I'd love to stay," Aiden called after her, hand on his chest like a Broadway lead, "but someone down there is allergic to intimacy. I'll go rescue the toast."
Downstairs, Ivy—the ever-reliable assistant who somehow managed to exist in all time zones at once—had set the table with her usual surgical precision.
Avocado toast on rye. Boiled egg whites. A side of cucumber sticks. And a dollop of organic berry yogurt that looked like it had been frightened into the bowl.
Aiden stared at it like it had insulted his heritage.
"This is what she eats?" he asked Ivy.
"She prefers light, energy-rich meals," Ivy replied with zero emotion.
"This isn't a meal. It's sentencing," he said, picking up a cucumber slice like it might be toxic.
"It's balanced," Ivy replied coolly. "Natural fats. Lean protein. Complex fiber."
"Cavemen didn't fight saber-toothed tigers for seed bread," Aiden grumbled. "They wanted real food. Bacon. Fire. Meat on a stick."
"Times evolve," Ivy said.
"Into sadness," he muttered.
Just then, Gloria walked in, carrying her judgment like a briefcase.
"She doesn't need meat," she declared. "Meat is inflammatory. It slows digestion, destabilizes hormones, and clogs arteries."
"And yet," Aiden replied, poking the egg white with a fork, "joyfully eating meat is one of the reasons civilization thrived. You really want to undo ten thousand years of culinary progress? That's a bold move, Gloria."
"You didn't even have a plate," she said. "No one invited you to this conversation."
He stood tall. "I'm going to go find real food. Something that doesn't look like punishment."
But then footsteps echoed down the stairs.
Valeria appeared.
Wearing his shirt—barely buttoned—and a silk slip that caught the morning light like sin.
Aiden stopped in his tracks.
Whatever point he'd been about to make evaporated.
He spun on his heel, pulled out a chair like a gentleman from a Regency drama, and said, "Please, sweetheart. Sit."
Valeria beamed and slid into the chair, folding her legs with far too much grace.
"Thank you, darling."
Aiden dropped into the seat beside her and grabbed a slice of rye toast like it was a hot fudge sundae.
"I thought you weren't hungry," Gloria said, eyeing him.
"I wasn't," he said, not missing a beat. "But then my wife walked in and reminded me—appetite isn't just physical. Sometimes you feast with the soul."
Gloria made a noise halfway between a scoff and a sigh. "Maybe read more Keats and less Twitter."
Valeria smirked into her coffee.
And for once, Aiden felt like maybe—just maybe—he was winning the game.