Page 61 of Alien Wants A Wife

He gives me a quizzical look.

I laugh. “Miracles really do come true. Oh, quick! They’re leaving us behind.”

We hurry to catch up, following Lydia and Killan as they make their way further around the edge of the cave, examining the lake from multiple angles, talking about feeding times and supplementary diets and… I honestly don’t know. As interesting as algae is, there’s only so much algae talk I’m prepared to listen to in a single day.

“Do you also make bread?” Roan asks me, gently brushing the back of his hand against my arm.

“God, no.” And I realize how little I’ve told Roan about my life back on Earth, too focused on returning home to spend any time actually thinking about home. “I’m a designer. A fabric designer. I kind of have my own business?—”

“You do?” Roan pauses to look at me, his eyes wide. Excited? Happy, perhaps, that we have this in common.

“It’s way, way smaller than your business,” I hurry to correct him. “I’m my only employee, and I do all the work. Well, except for the actual product manufacturing and distribution. I’ve outsourced that to a couple of larger companies. But I design all my fabrics myself.”

“Fabrics like this?” he asks, plucking at the hem of my pastel blue T-shirt and rubbing the cotton/polyester mix between forefinger and thumb.

“Yeah. But not this exact one. I was actually just thinking about how this pattern here would make a beautiful design.” Irun my hand over the cave wall, watching the water reflection dance over the dark rock. “These really organic waves. There’s no two of them alike.” I drop my hand to my side, remembering how keen I’d been on my first day here to tell the cast and the cameras about my business. Useless, now, of course, because no alien is going to want to order fabric from Earth, if they even know how to find Earth in the first place.

Still, the way Roan’s looking at me, like I’m the most brilliant designer in the whole universe, is sending butterflies through my stomach, and I smile, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear.

“You don’t really have any fabric on Ril II,” I say, stating the obvious to the alien not wearing any clothes. “But I can design other things, too. Like logos and packaging. Do you have a logo for your company?”

“Akh… We use our company name on our packaging.NaturalNufaral. Is that what you mean?”

“Kind of. A logo can certainly include the shop name. But it also uses an image and colors to trigger a response in your clients. For example, I call my shopHarlee’s Heart,and my logo is a floral heart so that when my clients see my logo they think of love and comfort and beauty. And that inspires them to buy more of my fabrics to use in their sewing projects—hopefully. I could design your company’s logo, encourage even more people to buy your algae. It’s a supplement, so something health related, something that makes your clients feel good about taking care of themselves.”

My right hand is practically tingling with my desire to start work. I always get this same excited feeling when I’m about to begin a new project. The possibilities are limitless, if I only put pen to paper. Or stylus to touchscreen.

“We could use green as your signature color,” I say, unable to stop myself now I’ve started. “Green to match the algae. Green to remind people of being outside, around plants and fresh air. Ohand maybe we could incorporate some of this wave pattern…” Without any tools to get started, I’m just spit balling random ideas. “Yes? No?”

“Yes. Yes! Although you must be careful.” Roan lowers his voice. “If Killan hears you speaking of logos and business branding, he will become overwhelmed with the need to subject us to one of his long lectures.” And Roan winks.Winks!

I giggle, lighthearted. Loving how easy it is for us to flirt and joke, to spend time together, to talk about our lives and our plans. “We can’t have that,” I tease. “I promise to only mention logos and business branding to you. It’ll be our secret.” And I wink too, right as I catch sight of the cameras in the corner of my eye.

It’s a knife to my stomach—the inseparability ofmewanting to flirt with Roan, andChloeordering me to flirt with Roan. Our moments alone together, recorded, analyzed and edited by LOVE GALAXY, turn into something twisted. Something not quite sanitary because I’m giving my abductors exactly what they demand.

Confused and angry, I speed up, following Killan and Lydia through another short tunnel into a new cave. Roan’s right behind me, and when he touches my shoulder, trying to catch my attention, clearly aware something’s wrong, I pretend I’m too focused on what Killan’s saying to notice.

It’s cowardly, even for me, but I can’t explain what I’m feeling to Roan. He can’t know about my deal with Chloe, and so I stare at Killan as if I really am fascinated by aquatic algae.

“… filtration.” Killan’s voice echoes around the new cave. It’s the smallest cave we’ve visited yet, and it doesn’t have a lake, meaning we’re standing on stone instead of an elevated walkway.

“Then we begin the drying process by removing all the excess water from the harvested Nufaral,” Killan continues, as Roanfinally gives up trying to catch my attention. “This does not take longer than two days, using our drying tables.” Killan points to a conveyer-belt-like table, at least ten feet squared, which takes up most of the cave.

In place of stalactites are several robotic arms. They’re motionless at the moment, as there’s no algae on the table to be dried, but I’m guessing by the railway-like tracks covering the ceiling, the robot arms usually have run of the cave.

“I saved a sample to show you,” Killan says, leading us to a free-standing cupboard against the far wall. “This was collected and dried in the previous batch.” And he withdraws a handful of dried Nufaral.

It looks a little like dried seaweed, if dried seaweed were crispy embroidery floss in a tangled knot even the most enthusiastic crafter couldn’t unravel.

“And it’s edible?” Lydia asks.

Killan nods. “Edible fresh and dried.”

She breaks off a small piece and pops it into her mouth.

Interested despite myself, I study Lydia’s expression. She purses her lips, looking exactly like a restaurant critic preparing to write a review.

“Tangy,” she eventually says. “And fresh. It melts in the mouth, like cotton candy.”

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