Page 75 of I Fell for an Alien Popstar

“Remote freelance, to start,” he said. “You’re on the bus, we’re on the road, and I’m not dragging you into boardrooms between shows. You’d work from here, from venues, wherever we park. After the tour, assuming we all still like each other, we’ll discuss a longer contract on Lumara. Advertising and marketing illustration for Lumara Sound. Campaign work. Visual identities. That sort of thing.”

For a second, I thought I’d misheard him.

“You’re… serious,” I said.

“I am very serious.”

He rotated the sketchbook back toward me and slid it across the table.

“You’ve been designing this tour in your head since before you left Earth. I’m just trying to get ahead of your brain.”

A laugh jerked out of me, half-shocked and half-delighted.

“I don’t—I mean—do you really think I could do that?” I asked.

“Yes, I do, Vada,” he said. “You’re extremely talented. I’d rather put a contract in front of you and call it what it is.”

My fingers curled around the edges of the book.

“Can I… think about it?”

He tilted his head.

“You can,” he said. “But I’m going to be honest, Vada. From where I’m sitting, this is not a ‘sleep on it for six months’ decision. This is a ‘we’d like to move on this before the next leg’ decision. You don’t have to say yes. But if the only reason you’re hesitating is that it feels too big, that’s not a good enough reason.”

While it was sort of about Zhari, it was more about me—for once. My chest had lit up when Tev said brand instinct which was totally high frequency because only my mum has ever preached that.

This was about sitting in a dull office on Earth, doing data entry crap, and wishing I were brave enough to do anything art related.

It was the vending machine all over again. The choice between clinging to a handful of credits or spending them on something that might change the shape of my life.

“I…” I swallowed. “I don’t want to overthink this.”

“Good,” he said dryly. “We have enough overthinkers in this organization.”

“Okay. “Yes!”

Oh my stars. I couldn’t believe I had just blurted that out.

“Yes,” I repeated once more, in case he didn’t hear me. “I want it. I want the job.”

He nodded once, decisive.

“Excellent,” he said. “I’ll send you a draft contract tonight. Nothing scary. Scope of work, rate, and deliverables. You can yell at me about clauses after you read it.”

He tapped the tablet, switching to a different view.

“Also, for the record,” he added, his eyes flicking back to me, “you are very talented, Vada. Honestly. I’m surprised you don’t do this for a living.”

Heat crept up the back of my neck.

“Careful,” I said. “You’ll ruin my carefully cultivated low self-esteem.”

“I can live with that,” he said. “Go have your moment. I have emails.”

He gathered his tablet and stood. My sketchbook stayed in front of me, the art that landed me a job on display.

When he left, the mess hall felt strangely quiet. The hum of the ship, the clink of cutlery somewhere behind me, and the faint whir of the air filters all blurred into the background.