Alien Mate

by Gloria Martin

  Jack embraced her then, careful not to squeeze the baby between them. They smiled at each other lovingly.

  “I can’t take the credit for that documentation, Jack…” Jen started.

  Jack held up his hand to stop her from saying anything else. “You deserve it, Jen. Besides, you did sort of discover us, you know… although I didn’t reveal our present existence. But in any case, everybody left there. They all moved to another country.”

  “Without you? But… who would be their king?” Jen wondered.

  Jack chuckled. “With Jessie as their queen, they won’t need me as their king anymore.”

  Jen laughed in surprise and joy. “Wow, Jessie must have been happy and excited!”

  Jack laughed too. “You bet. But she’s more excited about how our love story ends…”

  “Oh, I think it’s just beginning!” Jen said without thinking.

  Jack beamed at her. “I think so too…” He then planted a sweet kiss on her forehead and suddenly dropped to one knee. He took a tiny black velvet box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. “Miss Famous Scientist, my one and only Jen, will you do the honor of marrying me and spending the rest of our lives together with Brennan as one happy family?”

  Jen smiled widely through her tears. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’d love that.”

  He placed the beautiful engagement ring on her finger, stood up, and held her and Brennan in a loving embrace. “I love you forever, my Famous Scientist.”

  “And I love you too…” Jen answered softly, “… my Dragon Hero.”

  THE END

  Bonus Story 3 of 40

  The Live-Ins

  The sun breaks through the window and I instantly hate myself for not shutting the blinds before falling asleep. I can’t be too hard on myself—after what Dominic did to me last light I’m honestly surprised I’m awake at a reasonable hour. I roll over in his scratchy sheets and he’s still asleep—he probably will be for the next few hours. He closed Harvest Bar last night and now I’ve got to go open.

  I run around Dominic’s apartment searching for my white double-breasted jacket and toque with no luck. He’s the one who tore everything off me—he’s the one who will know. I have no choice but to wake him.

  “Dommmminnnnic,” I play, whispering into his ear. He swats at his nose like there’s a fly buzzing around him. Too cute.

  “Dominic,” I repeat louder. “I need to find my uniform for work and I need to be there in twenty-minutes, including ten minutes in line at Coffee Train.” Exhaling ever so cutely, he ignores me, rolls over, and pulls the blanket over his head.

  “Wear mine,” he mumbles from underneath. “In closet. Need sleep.”

  He gets like this anytime he closes, but I’ve never had to go into work in his uniform before. I go to the closet, open the door quietly, and look through the clothes hanging up. There is nothing white, let alone anything that resembles our uniform. Looking down, I see his white jacket, black pants and toque jumbled in a wrinkly ball. Great. I pick them up, shake them off, and not only are they a size too big for me but they’re also covered in spicy marinara sauce. Even better.

  “Dom, you don’t have another pair?” I ask. “These are all sauced up.”

  “Drycleaner,” he warbles.

  Ugh! Think, Tara, where the hell did Dominic strip you last night? I check the bathroom—behind the shower curtain, the living room—behind the couch, the kitchen—under the table. Nothing, nada. I can either keep searching and possibly come up with nothing or leave now in tomato sauce-stained clothes and still enjoy a dirty chai latte. I choose to put on Dominic’s baggy, stinky uniform. At least my shoes are still by the door.

  Life after Le Cordon Bleu is not as extravagant as I’d envisioned it. I’m 26 and a sous-chef at one of Century City’s finest wine bars. It’s not Beverly Hills but Harvest Bar is huge step up from the burger joint where I worked before school. Although I graduated toward the top of my class the only reason I was hired here is because Dominic has been my closest friend for years and just so happens to be the head chef at Harvest Bar. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter where you went to school—Los Angeles is a tough place to find good work in the culinary arts.

  Curse these Century City apartments without elevators! I take the stairs five floors down and step out of the complex. It’s a warm February day—definitely beats the winter they’re having back home. I wouldn’t be caught dead in Cleveland right now.

  Dominic’s building is a five-minute walk from the mall, which is most of the reason I consistently crash at his place. I live in Burbank, and with traffic it takes me an hour and twenty minutes to get to Century City on the 405 if I’m lucky. My rent is also a quarter the amount of Dominic’s, but there is no way I could afford to live this close to the city.

  It’s too damn hot to wear the chef jacket so I fold it, throw it over my shoulder, and walk to the mall in the black tank-top I wear underneath. My hair is extra frizzy today but I can probably braid it quick and shove it into the toque—one of the small perks of being a female chef—I don’t have to think too much about my hair.

  I love crossing Santa Monica Boulevard because I get a view of palm trees, buildings, mountains, and good-looking men. L.A. is the biggest melting pot I’ve lived in—Cleveland was primarily African American and Caucasian. Here, however, I get a variety of any kind of man I could want. Walking across the four-lane boulevard in my black slacks and black tank top, I don’t get as many look-backs as I’d prefer. My number one insecurity is that to these big businessmen and agents I look like some kind of hood rat, so I just keep my eyes on the scenery and enjoy the warmth on my skin.

  ***

  Once I step into the prep area I’m instantly pissed by what I find—all of last night’s closing work has been left for me. Damn you, Dominic, I think. I don’t care how busy they were last night; I’m tired of picking up his slack. After all, he does make ten thousand dollars a year more than I do.

  By the time Tim, my general manager, comes in, I’m only halfway where I need to be for the restaurant to open on time.

  “I’m sorry, Tim, I was left with a mess this morning,” I say, loading the dishwasher because the stewards don’t come in for another hour.

  “You know we have the Phillips P.D.B. today, right?” Tim asks. Oh, my God, I realize. Today is the day that we’re booked for Denver D. Phillips, billionaire and owner of PaeroTech—a conglomerate in the software industry. Do I know anything about software? No. But I know that P.D.B. stands for Private Dining Buyout, and that this company has rented the entire restaurant to serve five people.

  “That would be today,” I say, sprinting to the walk-in freezer. The whole time I’ve been here I should have been preparing the special courses instead of our standard menu.

  Tim follows me to the freezer and holds the door open while I gather ingredients that I know will take some magic to thaw before they arrive. “Do you want me to help, Tara?” he asks. I see the worry in his eyes, and if the general manager starts to freak out then everybody is going to start freaking out.

  “No, I got this,” I say assuredly, even though I’m shaking all over. Solid bags of frozen sauces fall out of my arms and I scramble to pick up the dozen slippery rogue ones.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asks. “You look kind of like you’re having an off day.”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask, grabbing the gallon container of herb mustard. I’ve started to organize everything I need on a cart so I only have to make one trip.

  “Because you’re wearing Dominic’s clothes from last night,” he says.

  I freeze, look down at the sauce-stained attire, glance back up to him and say as seriously as I possibly can, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  If Tim finds out that Dominic and I have a relationship outside of work both of us can get fired. Not that we really have a ‘relationship’ outside of work, per se—we’re just really close friends who
happen to sleep together often.

  “Last night I watched Fredrico spill an order of mussels all over Dom,” Tim says. “That’s his chef coat and pants, Tara. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

  I don’t stop stocking the cart, although I give him a single glance to acknowledge the fact that he’s got something on me. What can I say?

  “I just need this Phillips buyout to be perfect,” Tim says, straightening his tie. Maybe it would go a little smoother if you would just let me get to work, Tim.

  “I’ll do my best,” I answer.

  “Do better,” he says, letting the freezer door slam shut.

  ***

  With most of the core cooking utensils unusable in the pile of dirty dishes, I take the only logical route and prepare something both practical and simple.

  In total it takes me about thirty-five minutes to prepare brunch for five, leaving just enough time to help Tim set the chef’s table. The five men enter together. The first four are all old enough to be my father, but the man bringing up the rear is a shade under 35 judging by the flecks of grey in his brown hair. As he passes me he turns and penetrates me with his blue eyes—a glance that stirs me to my core.

  Tim does all the talking and introduces me as Chef Tara. The young one doesn’t take his eyes off me and I don’t even catch a word of what Tim is saying.

  “Isn’t that right, Chef?” he says, breaking me from my embarrassing stare.

  “I’m sorry, Tim, can you repeat that?” I say hoping my shiny smile will omit the blunder. “I haven’t had my caffeine this morning, gentlemen. I apologize.”

  “I was saying how you prepared a seasonal specialty for them this morning. One of your rare delicacies.” He clears his throat, trying to signify the fact that he’s improvising due to our late start.

  “Right, a seasonal specialty,” I say, taking his cue. Guiding the men over to the chef’s table I stand at the head while they take their seats. It’s the tradition for the Chef on Duty to present all dining experiences personally and introduce the meal before the guests enjoy it.

  The key is to not take up too much of their time while also giving them a unique presentation. After all, PaeroTech paid well over twenty grand for this brunch. Once I’m done they will eat, discuss business, and when they are finished the plates will be cleared so they can begin their slideshow presentation. At that point servers will be on the clock to close out the deal.

  “Well, this morning I thought I’d prepare a healthy, exotic, and seasonal omelet,” I say. I open the self-serving presenter on my side and Tim presents the other side. “This morning you will be enjoying free range egg whites scrambled to perfect in a seafood omelet of tiger shrimp, Maine lobster, Dungeness crab, Gouda cheese, asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, and chive batons. Enjoy your breakfast and thank you for dining at Harvest Bar.”

  With that spiel memorized, I take a long-needed breath, bow out, and exit the room to let Tim handle the rest. It’s amazing what someone can pull off in a pinch with some culinary knowledge and genuine inspiration.

  *****

  While the Phillips party goes into their presentation, I go outside to partake in one of the menial jobs of being a sous-chef at Harvest Bar—harvesting the herb garden outside the restaurant. The thing is, I actually enjoy the feel of rosemary, thyme, parsley and chives—and am infatuated by their aromas. I take sprig of rosemary between my fingers and place it in the herb jar when Tim runs out the back door, blasting both open at once.

  “What the hell did you put in that omelet?” he screams, taking me by the sleeve of my chef coat.

  “What do you mean? Are they allergic to shellfish?” One of my worst nightmares is someone dying from something I cooked. It jolts me awake at least twice a week.

  “No, but Mr. Fredegar is in anaphylactic shock. Did you put peanuts in the omelet?”

  My jaw drops and my eyes glaze over as I recall tossing the omelets in peanut oil to add a soft glaze finish. That’s the one ingredient I didn’t mention in the spiel. Oh, God, I think, I didn’t think the peanut oil would kill a man!

  Once I’m inside I see that the other four members of the party, including the devilishly handsome one, have Mr. Fredegar spread across the chef’s table. Behind me are the sirens from the CCEMT, two paramedics running up to the door. I was only picking herbs for ten minutes, I think, the paramedics rushing past me.

  Inside it feels like all of my pieces are falling apart. The only thing I can do is take slow, backwards steps out the door to the fresh air. This can’t be happening. Before the door closes I see Tim inside, assisting a paramedic, staring back at me with a rigid, vengeful glare.

  ***

  Two hours later I’m sitting in the stairwell behind the restaurant scrolling through my contacts for someone who might be willing to hire me. I normally don’t do this, but in my purse I keep a single cigarette for life emergencies such as losing my job. Thankfully the paramedics got Mr. Fredegar to a hospital and he is fine. Is it bad that I don’t feel at fault because someone should have spoken up about deathly allergies?

  The last person I want to call is the only person I can. I hit the green button and wait for Dominic to answer, hoping he doesn’t sleep through the ring. I light the cigarette, take the first drag, and blow it out once Dominic’s phone goes to voicemail. I hate leaving these things.

  “Hey, it’s me, Tara,” I say. Obviously, Tara. “So I kind of just got fired by Tim because this guy from the Denver D. Phillips party almost died from the peanut oil I cooked his omelet in. Um. Yeah. Hit me back.”

  I hang up quick, take another drag, and shove the phone back into my pocket. The truth is that I really don’t want to go back to Dom’s anyway. I partly think that this is his fault for keeping me up late and not giving me a heads-up about the V.I.P. brunch.

  I bury my head into my knees, letting the cigarette burn while hanging from my fingertips. As I lift my head to take another inhale, I’m surprised to see someone standing in front of me—the handsome guy from the catastrophic brunch.

  From this angle, the sun is right behind his head and I can’t see his face—only his dark silhouette.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m so sorry about your colleague.”

  “Oh, Fredegar? Nobody likes him, anyway. He’s had bad karma coming for years. He’s married but gets a hooker every time we’re in Vegas.”

  “Wow,” I say, “that’s a lot of information.”

  “Yes,” he laughs. A man who can stand my sarcasm. Nice. “I understand the rigid guy in the cheap tie terminated you from your position?”

  Word really does travel fast. “That’s correct,” I say, the glare from the sun forcing me to avert my eyes.

  “Well, I have another piece of information for you,” he says. “It could be life-changing. I’d be happy to share it with you under one condition.”

  Oh, great—one of the high-end types who thinks he can buy me. “Oh yeah, what would that be?” I ask.

  “Put out your cigarette.”

  I smile at my poor lack of judgment and oblige. “Okay, so what might this information be?”

  “I just so happen to be holding interviews in the next hour or two for an open position. I’m seeking a personal, professional chef. Do you think that is something that would be within your job set?”

  ***

  I don’t bother driving to Burbank since the interview is at his mansion in Beverly Hills. I don’t have money to waste gas like that, so I just sit in my car and wait until I have to drive over there. What are the odds that I run into a job opportunity moments after getting canned?

  I pull up to the palm tree lined gate to his mansion. It’s one of the buildings that takes up its own block. There is a camera at the gate and it shifts into focus while my car idles. The gates open automatically. What is the purpose of the camera? Is he expecting me?

  I pull up onto the drive where a tall woman with tan skin and long, chestnut hair stands in a black chauffeur’s uniform. Behind her is a jet black Roll
s Royce, and when she sees me walking up, she opens the back door for me to enter.

  “Hi, um, thank you,” I stammer awkwardly. “I’m here for the interview with—”

  Crap. How did I not even get the guy’s name? I typed the address to the mansion in my phone but in the moment totally blanked on formalities.

  “Mr. Phillips would like you to see the grounds before interviewing,” she says warmly. “I will be your guide. If you are still interested in the position afterward, Mr. Phillips will see you.”

  I get into the back seat and she closes the door. We drive in silence up to the building, and when she lets me out I take in the towering modernist design of the mansion. For once in my life I feel like I’m out of my element. Did she say Mr. Phillips? Wait; was that delicious man the Denver D. Phillips? I thought he was just a colleague. I’m about to interview for a billionaire? Things just got a little more real.

  ***

  The tour of the mansion ends after walking around its entirety for nearly two hours. I feel like I’ve been gallery hopping with all of the gorgeous art and textures around me. Still, I wasn’t prepared for this long of an event and I haven’t eaten yet.

  “Mr. Phillips will be home soon,” the chauffeur says, reading a message from her phone. “It seems he is running a little late. Feel free to relax in the kitchen. I’m sure you will feel at home there.”

  She smiles and turns to the entrance, and I hear the Rolls start up and take off down the drive. I walk around the kitchen admiring the array of knives and various cutleries. Whoever set up this kitchen really knew what they were doing. The walk-in freezer is bigger than my apartment, and that is no exaggeration.

  When I walk out of the freezer, a woman of my height with thin, long blonde hair is standing in the kitchen tinkering with one of the filet knives. “Hi, stranger,” she says through a Bordeaux colored smile. “You must be the new chef.”