Page 40 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

The twist in my gut tightens. "What about it?"

"We've been struggling to keep up." Mom's eyes meet mine. "The prep work, the deliveries, the cleanup. It's a lot for just the two of us."

"But I..." The words stick in my throat. Have I really been gone that much?

"We're happy you found someone." Dad's voice sounds gruff. "But the work doesn't stop just because you're in love."

Love? The word hits like a punch to the chest.

"We had to hire help." Mom gestures toward the kitchen. "Someone to pick up the slack."

Pick up my slack. The words hang unspoken between us.

My legs wobble. I grab the shelf for support, knocking over a jar of capers. The briny smell fills my nose as the liquid spreads across the floor.

"I didn't realize." My voice comes out small. "I'm sorry, I'll do better. We don't need him."

"Aileen." Mom's hand touches my shoulder. "It's okay. You're allowed to have a life."

But it's not okay. This is our place. Our family business. And I've been too busy playing house with an alien to notice my parents drowning in work.

The worst part? That blank-faced creep is probably better at making pizza than I ever was.

Shame burns my cheeks as I flee the stockroom. My parents' disappointed faces chase me back toward the kitchen. I'll deal with Smith Johnson first, then figure out how to make things right with Mom and Dad.

The kitchen door swings open under my palm. A metallic whirring fills the air.

Smith stands by the prep table, his massive frame hunched over something that gleams silver and purple in the fluorescent light. The device pulses with an eerie glow, sending patterns dancing across the stainless steel surfaces.

Our eyes meet. Smith's blank face twitches. In one fluid motion, he sweeps the object behind his broad back.

"What was that?"

"What was what?" His voice comes out flat, mechanical. The fake Jamaican accent nowhere to be heard.

"You—you just hid something behind your back."

"No I didn't."

The device's glow reflects off the wall behind him, casting alien shadows across the kitchen floor. My jaw hits the floor as pieces click into place. The robotic speech. The impossible dough-spinning. The wet ink on his application.

First Varak, now this. But while Varak protects Earth, something tells me Smith Johnson isn't here to guard our timeline.

"I can literally see it." I jab my finger toward the pulsing purple glow behind Smith's back. "It's right there, all glowy and weird."

"This is just my vape." Smith's face remains blank as a fresh sheet of pizza dough. "I have to maintain my Rizz."

My hand finds the bridge of my nose, pressing hard against the building tension.

"Your vape. That oblong, ludicrously humming thing is your..." Wait a second. "Hey, what happened to your accent?"

"Nothing, mon." The fake Jamaican lilt returns with a vengeance. "Everything Criss."

My fingers itch to grab fistfuls of my own hair and yank. Between Varak's drama and this obvious alien infiltrator, I'm about to lose it.

"If that's your vape, 'mon,'" I cross my arms, "then why don't you hit it?"

Smith's empty eyes dart from the device to my face. The purple glow reflects off his unnaturally smooth skin.

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