Page 12 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

Eventually, I got into a good flow. The muscle memory of being in the kitchen came back, just like riding a bike. A flip here, a sauté there, stir, plate, garnish, ring bell.

I was so caught up in the work that I almost didn’t notice when Al poked her head through the pass-through and pointed a thumb at someone behind her.

“Got someone asking about the job, chef.”

After years of working in toxic kitchen environments, I had a mild aversion to the typical hierarchy of things. Getting called “chef” like I was some kind of authoritarian figure was one of the things I was happy to leave behind when I came home.

“You don’t have to call me that, Al. We’re cousins—just call me by my real name.”

“Whatever you say, chef.” Al flashed me a cheeky smile. “I’m going to leave him with you.” And, strangely, she winked before walking away. I didn’t know people actually winked in real life.

It only took a split second to realize why. The guy behind her was cute in a disheveled sort of way, despite smiling wide like a lunatic. I suspected Al thought she was being sly by bringing him back here instead of taking his resume. She had been on me for weeks about trying to date again, and I always shut down her suggestion.

I wasn’t anti-dating. I just didn’t see the point in trying to date in Roswell Falls, where everyone was either a distant relative, older than the invention of sliced bread, or had known me in my pimply wannabe-goth phase. And if they didn’t fall into those three categories, they were probably my on-again, off-again ex, Walter.

My grip tightened on the spatula just thinking about that cheating asshole, and how unfair it was that he not only lived nearby, but had opened a restaurant down the street from mine.

I eyed the guy up and down. Jeans and a t-shirt, tennis shoes, and a backpack. Not the outfit I would have chosen to apply for a job, but hey, it’s not like this was some kind of high-powered executive role. We needed a cook, and cooks weren’t necessarily known for their sartorial choices.

“Hello!” The guy waved enthusiastically and smiled like he had a hanger in his mouth.

Aggressively chipper. We were already getting off on the wrong foot. But I was desperate, and we’d just hit a lull in orders. I had time to chat. Besides, there was nothing inherently wrong with being an upbeat person. If anything, my grumpy mood was the real problem. I probably could have benefitted from a boost of positive thinking.

“Hey,” I said, putting on a friendly face and waving him in. “Come on in, and we can chat.”

He entered the kitchen with tentative steps, nearly wiping himself out with the swinging door. Inside, his eyes darted around like a kid’s at the zoo, as if everything was something interesting to take in.

I sensed right away that he was a bit of an oddball. No problem. I could deal with oddballs. I liked oddballs. But was he kitchen material?

I got right down to business. “You got experience?” I asked, grabbing a spoon to stir a pot of pepper gravy.

The guy ran a hand through his brown hair, mouth twisted like he was considering what to say. “I’m competent in many normal things!” he said eventually.

Ohhhhkay.

Strange answer, but not a deal-breaker. And I could appreciate humility, if that’s what he was going for.

“Are you a fast learner?”

“I believe so!”

Another unusual response. But again, I liked the honesty. Male chefs were, by and large, not known for their humility, which made many of them unpleasant to work with. I didn’t want another person who would yell and stomp around and throw a fit. I wanted a solid, hard worker who didn’t have such a bad attitude that it made me break out in hives.

“Can you start today?”

“Absolutely!”

The magic word. I’d just caught a glimpse through the pass-through of a party Al was seating. Ten people. Fancy outfits and loud voices. Tourists.

And not just any kind of tourists. They were tourists who brunched.

I was going to need the help if I wanted to get through the rest of the day.

“Then grab an apron. I need someone on eggs.” I turned back to my station to plate a bowl of shrimp and grits, adding a sprinkle of parsley with a flourish.

Just like riding a bike.

When I looked up, the guy was still standing there by the kitchen door, staring at me with a goofy grin. Just…watching me.