Page 51 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

Couldn’t Kal have been the result of wishing on a falling star?

I had, however subconsciously, told myself that meeting Kal in such an improbable way meant that it was written in the stars.

I watched, half-seeing, half-daydreaming, as Kal’s icing became the perfect consistency. After looking at the recipe book again, he picked up a spatula and used it to scrape down the sides. He was a quick learner, all things considered.

Moments later, Kal spread the icing in great white dollops onto the cooling cinnamon rolls, successfully creating a picture-perfect final product.

“Ready for lesson number two?”

He swiped a lock of wavy hair from his forehead and smiled. Before I realized what I was doing, I’d reached out to wipe away a smudge of flour from his cheek, just below his right eye. I’m not sure how it happened, but I swear my hand lost mobility. It lingered there—resting beneath his jaw, thumb settled gently on the apple of his cheek.

“Yes, chef,” he whispered, eyes locking onto mine.

I wanted to kiss him again, soft and slow like before. Fast and deep, like we couldn’t resist. I wanted to be wrapped up in him.

Gently—so gently I almost didn’t realize it at first—one of Kal’s tentacles twisted around my wrist and pulled my hand away. He held it for several seconds, momentarily tightening his grip and flexing in a way that made me forget how to breathe. When he let go, my hand fell to my side like dead weight. Despite it being my uninjured wrist, I could feel the skin radiating heat as Kal turned away. He picked up Grandma’s recipe book and flipped to a new page.

Message received. Back to business.

Kal looked so calm, but I knew when his voice cracked as he said, “Let’s try the chicken and dumplings next.” It gave him away. This thing between us wasn’t all in my head. I wanted him; he wanted me. So why did it feel like we were galaxies apart?

I stood there on a knife’s edge, deciding. Would I push for more, or let the moment pass? I opted for the latter. When the tension dissipated, I could almost believe it hadn’t been there at all. With a lump in my throat, I settled my sprained wrist back on ice—along with my feelings for him.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, mercifully drawing my attention away from whatever this thing between Kal and me was. I groaned at the messages.

Mom

Dinner tonight. NO EXCUSES. Dress nice.

Mom

That means no sweatpants.

Mom

I mean it.

Checking the time, my phone let me know we had a little over an hour to get ready, and I still needed to coach Kal on what to expect.

“Did I mention you’re meeting my entire family tonight?” I asked sheepishly.

Lola

Mom was quite possibly the worst cook in Roswell Falls, yet she always insisted on making her special spaghetti every time she hosted dinner.

What made the spaghetti so special? That was the fun part—no one knew because it was different every time. There was a particularly chunky batch from my childhood that haunted me for at least a decade afterward. But no matter how much we begged and pleaded, there was no stopping Mom and her massive spaghetti pot.

To add insult to injury, she always insisted we dress up for spaghetti night. Yes, she gave us a dress code for eating noodles in tomato sauce (though whether she would actually use tomato was questionable).

I had to bribe Jacob with not one, but two cinnamon rolls so that he would sneak an outfit from Dad’s wardrobe over to my apartment. Then I felt guilty because I’d left my brother and Kal alone in the living room as I got dressed. I could hear them talking from my slightly ajar door. Jacob had written a long list of questions for Kal, and was slowly working through them one by one.

“What’s this?” my brother asked.

“This is a terranaut’s single most important tool on a mission,” Kal said. “It’s a comms deck that keeps my people connected, even on missions.”

“Cool! Does that mean I could talk to aliens right now? I mean, other than you?”

“Well…no. Because that one is broken,” Kal said patiently.