Page 26 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

Ugh, no. I needed to stop letting my mind wander.

I cleared my throat. “She always said, ‘If you’re going to cook for other people, you ought to do it right or not at all.’”

Kal said, “Oh.” It was a light, breathless exclamation, like he was considering the words deeply. As if I had just shared awe-inspiring wisdom from some old ancient text and not an elderly woman from the mountains of Eastern Tennessee.

I flicked the mixer off and scraped down the sides of the bowl with a spatula. I could feel Kal watching. My hands felt clumsy under his scrutiny, but I tried my best to keep the bowl steady as I scooped icing onto the still-warm cinnamon rolls.

My attention fixated on the simple task. Focus.

I had always loved this part of the process. There was something so satisfying about how the cool icing melted on the warm rolls.

It was an art, not a science. If the rolls were still too hot, you got a runny mess. Too cool, and the icing sat on top like an amorphous glob. But when the cinnamon rolls were just the right temperature, adding cream cheese icing resulted in a picture-perfect pan of delicious, gooey goodness.

Kal stooped beside me, watching as I spun the pan while spreading the icing. “I can’t believe you made all of this,” he said, genuinely riveted.

It had been a long time since someone had been this impressed by my baking abilities, and I found I liked it—being fawned over by him. It made me feel special.

“Would you like to try one?” I asked.

I wasn’t quite sure why I was letting myself fall into this trap again of trying to impress a man. Or maybe I was being too hard on myself and it wasn’t as pathetic as that.

It also made me sad to think that Kal had never seen a cinnamon roll before, much less tasted one. But there was a part of me that could begrudgingly admit it was simply because I wanted more of his attention, more of his praise. More of those eyes looking at me like that.

When Kal said yes, I dished out a fresh cinnamon roll—the middle one, obviously, because those are the best ones—and pushed it onto a plate, then into his hands. He held it up to his nose and inhaled deeply, eyes closed. I reveled in Kal’s look of pure, unbridled joy as he took a bite. Then it morphed into something else. A fluttering of the eyelids and tightening of the jaw, a low hum of pleasure far too close to a moan for me to feel comfortable.

I averted my eyes, suddenly all too aware of our proximity and the fact that I was his boss.

“Oh my, Lola,” he said in a tone that made my stomach flutter uncomfortably. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

My face heated at the praise, and the closeness of the words my and Lola as they came from Kal’s lips.

I had only given him a cinnamon roll, right? Just one measly cinnamon roll, but it felt like something more significant than that. And it was safe to say I was going crazy by that point, because nothing going through my mind made sense.

“I—I could teach you how to make them,” I said stupidly.

What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be finding more reasons to spend time with him!

With a full mouth, Kal said, “Yeth pleathe!” before devolving into another round of noises that told me he thought the food was delicious—and also that it had been far too long since I’d been with someone. My belly flipped like a stack of pancakes, and I was growing increasingly sweaty.

But I was also struck by how adorable Kal’s reactions were, and I had never met a chef who could resist the pull of someone fawning over their food. It reminded me that I was practically starved of genuine praise lately. Between trying to save the family restaurant, keeping my head above water, and dealing with my breakup, my self-esteem was seriously drained.

My family was supportive, of course, but I was sure they didn’t know how much I was juggling or how much insecurity I was keeping from them. I just didn’t want them to treat me like a failure. Or worse—like I wasn’t a failure even though I was objectively failing.

“You’ve got a little…” I tapped the tip of my nose, indicating where Kal had collected a smear of cream cheese icing.

He grinned at me with his big, goofy grin and looked at me with those polished jade eyes. I tapped the tip of my nose again. Kal reached a finger out and tapped my nose, too. I followed his finger in slow motion, my eyes crossing as I tried to keep it in my line of sight. His finger pad touched me softly, and I thought of the butterfly I saw perched on his nose the other day. How strange it was to see something so delicate and beautiful find a safe place to land on a man. And I suppose it would be a lie if I said I didn’t envy that butterfly for its bravery. Or perhaps its naivete, to think a man could be a safe space.

“Oh,” I said, Kal’s finger brushing the tip of my nose. That’s all I said—just, oh. I was too caught off guard, too in my head to say anything else. And then I reached my finger out and swiped the dollop of frosting from Kal’s nose. I held it between us.

“I missed some,” Kal whispered, “and it’s the best part.”

Before I realized what was happening, he took my wrist in his hand, brought my finger to his lips, and licked it clean. My breath hitched, and my mind went blank. I couldn’t think with him so close to me, that smile that was just a smidgen too wide, too trusting.

And those damn eyes.

I leaned in slowly, pulled close by his tractor-beam eyes, until our lips were inches apart.

The door slammed, and I jumped back, knocking the spatula off the counter with a clatter. Kal blinked, stunned. For my part, I’m pretty sure I turned beet red or—at the very least—a shade of heirloom tomato.