Page 2 of Cruel Lies

Or he'll say I'm "curvy" in this sort of eyebrows-raised, half-smirking kind of way that really doesn't sound like a compliment, even though he insists it is.

So I decided,Fine. I'm still me. I'm still a badass. SuperMom can be SuperBabe again. Just give me three months, and I'm gonna rock your world, baby.

That's the plan, anyway.

Which brings me back to the scale.

If I weigh 182 and the scale just clocked someone at 142, then ipso facto, someone must be standing on my bathroom scale right now. At home. While I'm in Phoenix.

The kids are at my mom's for the weekend. I dropped them off myself before I flew out. So it's not Hayden or Isabella, and besides, they're little. They don't weigh anything close to 142.

That leaves Todd.

But Todd weighs a wee bit more than 142. My husband is a big guy. Six foot two, a former high school football star, on the wrong end of a decade-plus of three-martini lunches with his banker bros in the Financial District.

So it's not Todd, either.

Who does that leave?

Even weirder is that time difference. I've been at the post-convention happy hour since the sun set, chatting and networking with all the other conference attendees. I check the clock on my bedside alarm clock to see12:11 A.M.lit up in bright red numerals.

Just past midnight here equals three in the morning back home, New York time. Huh. Bizarre.

But no matter how I try to square things up, it just doesn't make sense. Late on a Thursday night, can't be the kids, Todd's home alone…

…or is he?

As soon as that thought steps one nasty little Grinchy tiptoe in my conscience, I shove it right back out. No. Nuh-uh. No freaking way.

There are a hundred more likely reasons I might be seeing this notification right now. Maybe a friend came over. Maybe Todd's mom stopped by and got curious about the new gadget. Maybethe scale's just broken. The thing's only a month old. Things break, newfangled technological things especially.

But let's be honest: I don't believe any of that.

No "friend" would plausibly be in our private master bedroom. Todd's mom is in a wheelchair at a nursing home. And yeah, the device could be broken… but do I really think it is?

I think I'm getting loopy. Two Cosmopolitans at happy hour, plus a day that started early and ended very late, multiplied by lots of extremely anxiety-inducing conversations in between, equals one very tired Cali. Letting my mind run rampant with negative, invasive thoughts is not doing me any favors. Besides, I need to get some sleep so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I meet with Emmett Glover tomorrow morning.

So I set my phone facedown on the bedside table and slip into the bathroom. I change out of the day's work clothes, brush my teeth, and wash my face.

When I'm done, I make the mistake of looking up.

The hotel mirror is one of those cruel, unflinching ones with the lighting designed by someone who clearly hates women. I stand there in my underwear and take stock.

It was stupid to wear this underwear. It's a frilly black set of matching bra and panties. I thought it would feel like battle armor, giving me a sexy little charge underneath my finest business casual. In this harsh fluorescent glare, though, it looks cheap and tacky.

More embarrassing than that is the body underneath. There's the soft little pooch of my belly that Isabella gifted me on her way into the world. The hips, wide enough that Todd finds ithilarious to make "vehicle moving in reverse" noises whenever I'm backing up while vacuuming in the house. My thighs touch in the middle, which I'm told is a Problem, though I've never quite understood whose or why or what exactly is supposed to be fitting in there, anyway.

I turn sideways. Suck in. Let it out. Turn back.

The thing is, I don'thatewhat I see. Not exactly. On a good day, I look at this body and think,Damn, girl. You grew two humans in there. Go you!

But it's midnight, and I'm tired, and tomorrow, I have to convince a stranger I'm worth a fortune. So right now, all I can see is the pounds I haven't lost yet, and all I can think about is a number on a scale that doesn't belong to anybody I can explain.

I flick off the light.

I pull on my pajamas in the dark and get under the covers of the bed. My phone is right there if I want to keep squinting at that stupid BioInfo notification, but I try to talk myself out of it.

I mean, I'm jumping to conclusions, right? I have to be. There's a very good explanation that'll make all this panic look silly.