Page 67 of Alien Wants A Wife

I close my eyes, latching onto the two people who I know, without a flicker of doubt, are responsible for me being unable to give Roan the answer he wants to hear. Frickin’ Mr. Smith and Chloe are standing between us.

The last thing I feel like doing is following more of their orders. I want to curl into a ball and hide under the bedcovers. Then, I remember, there aren’t any sheets on Roan’s bed. There isn’t really anywhere to hide from the cameras in his house.

So I plaster on a fake smile, and only when I’m sure I’ve got my expression under control do I step out of the circle of his arms. “How about I cook, since you made breakfast?” I approach the kitchen cabinets, searching through them for ingredients. Nothing looks anything like Earth food, so I hurriedly close the doors, pressing on the touchscreen set into the backsplash instead. I saw Killan use his version of this to order us drinks that day we played Two Truths and a Lie—or Truth or Dare. Or Seven Minutes in Heaven. Whatever that mess of a game had been.

Of course, I can’t read any of the options presented on the touchscreen, so I click a few at random. There’s a mechanical swirling sound, followed by a few clicks, then a hatch in the counter opens, and a platter rises. On it are two plates. One’s completely empty. The other has a kind of sludge on it… It looks edible, if unappealing.

I try again. This time I’m given two bowls and a plate, all of which have unidentifiable food—but at least it’s not sludge this time, so I’m going to count it as a win.

“There. Dinner.” I step back to admire my handiwork, which was really no work at all.

He’s looking at the food as if surprised by my choice.

“Well, I think it looks great,” I lie.

What it doesn’t look is romantic… And the task had specifically said aromantic meal. Considering how the rest of the day went, not to mention last night when I set off the alarm on Mr. Smith’s ship, I want to make completing this task a peace offering. Not that Mr. Smith deserves a peace offering.

But Lydia does.

Lydia deserves me not annoying Mr. Smith more than I already have.

And Roan… I get that us having a romantic meal together is probably going to make everything worse if I do leave. Butagh!I really want to have a romantic meal with him. He’s never been on a proper date before. If I can give him one, then I bloody well will.

I inspect our surroundings, searching for ideas that might be considered romantic to both Roan and Mr. Smith.

I don’t think there are candles on this planet, and I’m yet to see fabric of any variety, so there’s no tablecloth.

I duck into Roan’s bedroom to rummage around in my duffle bag, and I return triumphantly with my cocktail dress, the one I’d worn the first day we met. I don’t strictly remember packing it. Then again, I’d been distracted by Chloe and Lydia at the time.

When I lay it over the table, it’s almost big enough to cover everything but the corners.

I transfer the plates and bowls to the table, trying to use the crockery to cover the arm and neck holes, and I almost succeed.

Roan’s lips are lightly parted as he watches me set everything up. When I steer him to his seat, he follows without complaint, sitting down and watching me curiously across the table. I drag my heavy chair around, closer to his, until we’re not face to face, but side to side, so I can hold one of his hands under the table.

After all my button pressing, I still only ended up with one empty plate. (The cutlery I found in a draw.) So I pile a little of everything onto the single plate, sharing with Roan.

There’s a definite glow in his eyes, the Ril’os equivalent of a smile, as he nods toward my skirt-slash-tablecloth. “Do you always eat with clothing?”

“Yep.” I grin. “It makes the table look pretty.”

He makes thatakhsound that sometimes means he isn’t prepared to say actual words, probably for fear of insulting my interior decorating style, and at other times signals confusion. I’m not entirely sure which interpretation I should apply to this situation and decide it doesn’t matter.

I take a bite of food, loving that I can hold one of Roan’s right hands and yet he still has a right hand free for his cutlery. One of the many benefits of four arms.

The food’s not nearly as nice as the breakfast Roan made me. Maybe because I didn’t know which buttons I was pressing. Maybe because Roan made our breakfast himself instead of relying on fast food prepared by a robotic arm living in a cupboard.

I try not to wince with every mouthful and get the impression Roan is trying as hard. Adorable man.

I love how something as simple as us sitting down together to eat a meal feels special. Doesn’t matter that the food’s gross (well, maybe it matters a little bit); we’re enjoying each other’s company.

Is this, I wonder, what our life together might look like?

And children, I remember with a jolt. We’re reproductively complementary.

In five years’ time, if I were to stay, would it still be just the two of us eating together? Maybe… I close my eyes, the thought almost too perfect to bear thinking about. Maybe it could be me and Roanandour children.

Chapter Twenty-Five

---