Page 63 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

“Do, or do not. There is no try,” Kal said with all sincerity.

How…was an alien quoting Yoda to me? And why did I understand him completely?

Kal let his tentacle fall away before tucking it back into the material of his human suit. I was still stunned into silence as he slipped back into his human persona, readjusted, and pressed the button to fasten it back up.

He was a regular guy again, Kal-but-not-my-Kal, with normal human features and otherworldly emerald eyes. I wished there was a way for Kal to walk around without his disguise, but even for an accepting town like Roswell Falls, I knew that was asking too much.

But at least I knew what was beneath that exterior, and it was lovelier than the night sky. That could be enough.

Lola

“I’m going to throw up.”

“It’ll be fine, Lo. Just breathe.” Nat fanned me with her hands as I tried not to hyperventilate in the restaurant kitchen.

Luckily, I’d had the foresight to ask Nat to act as standby help in case we needed an extra set of hands. And I’m glad I did, because not only was she a huge help running orders to tables, she was also here for the exact moment I needed a pep talk that only my best friend could give.

This fresh bout of panic was initiated when Al peeked her head in to let me know the judges had arrived and were being seated.

“They’re going to hate it,” I wheezed. “Like, absolutely despise my food.”

I felt a sharp pain as a hand connected with my cheek.

“Dude, what the hell?” I rubbed at the stinging cheek and glared at my best friend.

Nat shook out her hand and looked me dead in the eyes like it wasn’t the worst possible time to slap me in the face. “Look, I’m sorry for using my one slap in this moment because I know you’re super stressed. But good grief, Lo, you need to get it together.”

I couldn’t believe that was how Nat decided to use her one slap.

Nat and I had long been best friends who acted more like sisters. So much so that when we were teens, we established what we called the One Slap Rule, which meant we could each slap the other once a year, no consequences. (What we lacked in naming creativity, we more than made up for in interesting but effective conflict resolution strategies.)

But we hadn’t actually used the One Slap Rule in almost a decade, which meant I was doubly flustered.

I was also considering using my free slap immediately, but I resisted, against my better judgment. My wrist had just returned to normal, and I didn’t want to risk another injury. Instead, I bared my teeth at her in a sad display of irritation.

Nat rolled her eyes.

“Actually, I’m not sorry I used my slap,” she said. “Those judges out there look extremely nice and not at all threatening, and they’re old enough to be our grandparents.”

Then Nat grabbed my chin and directed my gaze back to their table. There were three of them—two women and one man—and all three looked perfectly pleasant. They were in the restaurant to judge a few meals, not decide if I’d make it past the pearly gates or not.

Why was I so scared of them?

Oh, right, because winning the contest felt like my Hail Mary attempt to save Southern Charm.

“Okay, fine. They’re not scary,” I admitted. “But the situation is! What if we don’t win and we did all of this for nothing, and then…”

The sentence trailed off as I took in a big gulp of air, trying to regulate my breathing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nat lift her hand again.

“If you slap me a second time, Nat, I swear—”

“Look around you, you boob!”

Boob? She seriously needed to have a stern talking to after everything died down.

“The place is packed!”

But Nat was right, of course. When I looked out into the dining room, every table was full, and there were more parties waiting. Earlier in the day, during the breakfast and lunch rushes (yes, we’d even had rushes), Darlene had told me she “hadn’t had this much exercise since that Jane Fonda put out her exercise video.”