Irene Connelly stomped through the front door of her daughter’s house with heavy, purposeful strides that felt entirely wrong. The long legs, broad shoulders, and flat chest threw her off balance with every step. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror and nearly snarled. Dalton McPherson’s 28-year-old face stared back at her-clean-shaven, strong jaw, short dark hair, wearing one of his plain button-down shirts and jeans that hung loose on his athletic frame.

“Ivory!” she bellowed, her voice coming out deep and masculine. “Get out here right now!”

Ivory McPherson hurried in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes went wide. “Mom? Oh… wow. You look just like him.”

Irene planted Dalton’s large hands on his hips. “Don’t you ‘Mom’ me in that tone. Why the hell am I walking around in your husband’s body? I woke up this morning in my own bed, looked down, and saw *this*!” She gestured angrily at the masculine torso. “Explain yourself, young lady.”

Ivory sighed and motioned for her mother to sit. Irene dropped onto the couch with a grunt, legs sprawling.

“Dalton needed your body,” Ivory said carefully. “There’s something shady going on at the supermarket his company owns-missing inventory, suspicious night deposits, maybe an inside job. If he walked in as himself, the employees would clam up or tip off whoever’s responsible. But as a harmless, ordinary sixty-two-year-old woman doing her shopping? No one would look twice. He could watch, listen, maybe even talk to people without raising suspicion.”

Irene’s borrowed eyebrows shot up. “Then why didn’t he use his own mother’s body? She’s about the same age!”