Page 24 of Alien Wants A Wife

“You’re early,” he snaps. “We’re interviewing Lydia before you.”

“Am I?” I blink, innocently. “I will wait.”

“Hmm.” He gives me a long look, before motioning for Lydia to proceed him into the room Harlee has recently vacated.

Lydia dawdles, taking hold of Harlee’s hand.

“Did you—” Harlee begins, but a swift glance at everyone watching has pink flooding her cheeks, and she closes her mouth.

“No.” Lydia shakes her head. “Mr. Smith locked Briar in one of the bedrooms, and I can’t open the door to get her out.”

“She’s perfectly safe,” John Smith snaps, taking hold of Lydia’s shoulder and pushing her through the open doorway before him. “She’s resting.”

“Then how come you won’t let me speak to her?” Lydia demands as John Smith begins to close the door behind them.

“Actually, Chloe,” Harlee says, raising a hand to catch the assistant’s attention over the top of John Smith’s head. “Could I have a quick word? In private?”

“Bit busy—” is all Chloe has time to say before the door closes completely, leaving Harlee and me in the passageway by ourselves.

“Right.” Harlee stares at the shut door. “Maybe later, then,” she mumbles as if she thinks Chloe can still hear her.

And maybe Chloe can. There is a lot I do not know about Humans.

She turns and flinches when she sees me, almost as though she had forgotten that I was here—or that she was not alone.

“Harlee,” I repeat, then pause, suddenly wondering what else I should say. Starting our second-ever conversation with a detailed list of all the reasons I would make an excellent Mate might appear too zealous. Unless, of course, that is exactly what she is waiting for. “Akh…” No words escape my mouth, and I’m left wondering if this is how Sorin feels every time he falls silent, faced with the endless possibilities of conversational topics.

“Hi.” She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. Standing, she is almost level with my shoulder, and she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze, which she does before hastily looking away again.

She is the tallest of the Females, I realize, and I like that. I like that I do not have to bend as far to bring us face to face.

“Actually Roan, I w-wanted to talk to you as well. Maybe there’s somewhere we could go.”

This being my first time aboard, I do not know where anything is.

“This way, I think.” She takes the lead, and I follow her deeper inside.

A few of the doors automatically slide open as we pass them, but most remain sealed. Behind one of them, Briar is being kept prisoner, and I clench my hands into fists, wishing there was something I could do to release her. But all sealed doors are controlled by a biogenetic lock that responds to John Smith only, effectively keeping everyone else out—or in, as the case may be.

So instead I follow Harlee through one of the open doorways. The room beyond is unlike any I have seen before. It is small, with a low ceiling, and I must bow my head to keep from hitting my horns. Two cameras have been mounted onto the walls, and their lenses move as they zoom in on our faces.

Also present are mirrors along two of the walls and three tables all set with bright lights. Containers and electronic equipment are scattered over every surface, and Harlee brushes some of them aside as she takes a seat, turning on the swivel chair to face me.

I copy her, sitting, but the chair is much too low for me, and I am sure my knees are poking up toward my chin. No matter how much I swivel, I cannot find a comfortable position.

“Can I, er, help you?” she asks, eyes narrowed as she watches me spin.

“What is the purpose of this room of—” I survey the unknown objects—“things?”

“It’s a makeup room. You know, for getting ready for filming.”

I pause in my quest to find a comfortable position. “You get ready for filming?” Should I be getting ready for filming? I will be having my first on-camera interview soon. “What do you do to get ready?”

“Oh, well, I put on some makeup and curled my hair.” She runs a hand through her perfectly black, perfectly smooth hairs, threading her fingers between the strands. “The curls didn’t last long, thanks to the wind, but it was curly for a bit,” she adds, as if she can read the direction of my thoughts.

I narrow my eyes, suspicious, but quickly dismiss any idea that she may be telepathic. She and the other Humans would not have had so many questions for Killan and me when we first met if they could read our thoughts.

“I w-wanted to thank you,” she says, “for earlier.”

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