Page 26 of The Alien's Little Sister

She twists a claw in her palm, like people wring their hands. “I could experience your city alone, but I thought… well, I’d like to invite you to join me, if you’d like.”

Her eyes are so hopeful. “You bet,” I find myself saying before I can really think this through. “No way in hell you’re paying, but you’re here for adventure, right? If Stacy can wriggle around one of your bookings, you and I will hit Revival Food Hall.”

Hands down, it’s the place to go if you want a taste of the best cuisine in the area.

Since it’s past peak hours, there’s a good chance the lines wouldn’t have been killer—but we’ll never know, because we didn’t make it there. Instead, Inara excitedly tries every food vendor in a four-block radius of Escape Rooms HQ, even the questionable-looking ones. If we see a truck or a stand, she introduces herself and asks them what they’d recommend as their best and brightest dish. She’s effervescent and genuine and everything is new to her.

She’s really friggin’ cute to watch.

Back in the employee parking lot, at the picnic table designated for smokers (of which, our business has none), Inara slides herself on the bench like a lady, peels open the wrapper of her pink-in-the-middle hamburger she took a bite of (and grimaced over), and she lights the thing on fire.

The bread turns to ashes, the table burns black, and her beef smells amazing—like the grilled well-done stuff.

As I stare at her in stunned silence, she uses her claws to raise her patty, and begins to bite into it daintily.

When her break is over and she heads back to her escape room (which is booked solid for the rest of the night, thanks to more call-ins cashing in their discount cards from today), I go back to work. I drop off a cookie with Stacy because she blossoms under surprises, especially if her surprises come with chocolate chips, and I bring Jason and Sal burgers—and warn them to nuke them good since they’re probably as rare as Inara’s was.

When we close up for the night, I don’t take Inara right to the car. Instead, we walk the city for over an hour, just letting her see the sights and enjoy the lights before heading back to the parking lot where we can hop in my car and head for my apartment.

CHAPTER 13

I’m weirdly wound up when we’re standing in my frunchroom.

(Frunchroom: Chicagoan for ‘front room,’ the place you hang out with family, friends, and loved ones. A living room, basically.)

Could be all those looks Inara kept sliding my way on the drive back here. In fact, I’m almost positive that’s why I’m keyed up and ready to climb the walls, despite getting to stretch my legs. “Quit looking at my fish like that,” I warn, and she turns away from them with a guilty fanged smile.

Tomorrow, so help me, I’m buying her Goldfish crackers. And maybe like a whole salmon. “Are you hungry again?”

“No,” she replies, looking like she means it.

Maybe my fish just fascinate her in dangerous ways. Best to keep her occupied and her attention on other things. “I’m going to hit the treadmill. Want to join me?”

She brightens at my offer and accepts, and we end up jogging together for a solid twenty minutes, her tail swishing behind her in a lazy, attractive wave, despite our speed.

Our cool down is quiet. So is our walk back to my apartment.

We take turns hitting the shower for a good rinse, and Inara lets me go first. I’m out in track sweats and a respectable T-shirt, remaking my bed on the couch when she exits the washroom wearing a coral-colored cami and ruffled boyshorts the color of ripe peaches.

As it happens, the otherworldly boyshorts display the upper curves of her round-as-peaches cheeks.

I don’t even want to know what her actual peach looks like. I mean, I do, but INAPPROPRIATE MATT—I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS.

“The—Inara,” I wheeze.The fuck you’re wearing those to bed!“Woman, put some fucking clothes on,” I squeak. The loss of my natural masculine voice doesn’t slow me down. Humiliation has no place here: I’m saving us both. I march into my room, rip open my top dresser drawer, and yank out a pair of serviceable black boxers. “Here.” I shove them at her.

“What about my tail?” she asks.

Dammit.“Well, you’ve gotta cover up with something.”

Her idea of a nightshirt isanothercami, a lace one this time. Pristine white, by the way. Hot as sin, for the record. And my brain and my dick do not care that she’s an alien. My dick in particular is a problem, because neither does he care about ethics—she works for me, and that still works fine for him.

But it’s not like I can blame my cock. She’s sexy asfuck.She also smells edible, which is confusing because I have nothing but men’s shampoo in my shower. She should smell like chemically mimicked evergreen trees. And maybe like sandalwood.

She smells like neither of those things. She smells like a sexy woman.

“Why do you smell so good?” I ask, confused. She smells like that spot on a woman’s neck when she first wakes up, when she’s warm and cozy—when it’s so relaxing just to sniff and cuddle with her until the morning alarm gets rude.

Inara’s eyes widen. “You can scent me?”

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