Page 2 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

The artificial perfection of his face suddenly seems more plastic than prestigious. Those eyes that looked merely strange before now scream wrong.

"Just who in the Hell do you think you are, anyway?" The words burst out before my brain catches up with my mouth.

"Charles Varakian." His smile doesn't reach those strange eyes. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

The name clicks. Headlines flash through my mind - skyscrapers rising from empty lots overnight, whole neighborhoods transformed in the blink of an eye. The man who's changing the face of Chicago, one property at a time.

"The Real Estate mogul?" The spray bottle forgotten at my feet, I cross my arms. "Well, you can forget it. My parents will never sell this place. You're not the first one to try."

Eight million would set us up for life, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. But I push it away. This place isn't just brick and mortar - it's the heart of everything we are.

"You are lovely." His gaze rakes over me again, making my skin crawl. "But naive. Is there someone else I might speak to? The head of household? A man perhaps?"

The nerve of this guy! My knuckles turn white around the spray bottle. But wait - why waste my breath? I know exactly how to handle this walking designer suit.

"Hey, Pop?" My lips curl into the sweetest smile I can muster. "I've got a Tycoon with Extra Cheese out here!"

The beaded curtain parts with a clatter as Dad bursts through, flour coating his apron and dusting his balding head. Even with marinara stains on his shirt and standing a good foot and a half shorter than Mr. Perfect, Pop radiates the kind of confidence you can only get from decades of telling people where they can stick their "authentic Italian cuisine."

"Listen up you stuffed suit, Papa Marella's ain't for sale." Dad plants himself between me and Varakian, chest puffed out like a territorial rooster. "Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."

Mr. Varakian's perfect face twitches - just for a second, but I catch it. That's right, buddy. You wanted to talk to the man in charge? Well, here he is. Hope you're happy.

The perfect mask cracks. Varakian's shoulders hunch forward, his pristine suit wrinkling. Those otherworldly eyes dart to the windows, checking the street outside.

"Please, you must understand, it's imperative that I acquire this restaurant."

The desperation in his voice catches me off guard. What happened to the arrogant suit who waltzed in here moments ago?

Pop waves his flour-covered hands in dismissal. "Ah, I don't got time for this. I gotta take the dough outta the proofer. Beanie, show this clown the door."

The beaded curtain rattles as Pop disappears into the kitchen. Varakian's perfect brow furrows, his head tilting like a confused puppy.

"Who is this Beanie, and why does your father assume I cannot find the door or that I am some sort of Harlequin?"

A laugh bubbles up from my chest. The genuine confusion on his face only makes it worse. Here stands Chicago's most powerful real estate mogul, baffled by a nickname and common phrase.

But Varakian's expression remains dead serious, waiting for an answer. My laughter dies in my throat.

"You're not from around here, are you, Mr. Varakian?"

"I don't know what you mean?" His perfect face twitches, eyes darting to the windows again. "I am a perfectly normal human businessman from planet Earth. You never answered my query. Who is Beanie?"

A chill runs down my spine. Who says they're from "planet Earth" unless... no, that's crazy talk. The heat must be getting to me.

"It's just a stupid nickname my Dad gave me when I was little." A humiliating nickname. "Why is it so important that you get your hands on this corner lot? Does the world really need another Starbucks?"

His head snaps toward me, those golden eyes widening. He glances over both shoulders, then beckons me closer with one manicured finger.

The scent of his cologne hits me first - something expensive and exotic that definitely didn't come from the mall. But underneath that, there's something else. Something that reminds me of ozone and thunderstorms.

I shouldn't step closer. Everything about this screams "bad idea." But my feet move anyway, drawn by that strange desperation in his eyes.

His breath tickles my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "The very fate of your world is at stake."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I should laugh. I should tell him to get out and never come back. Rich people and their designer drugs, right? That's all this is.

But those eyes... there's something in them that stops the laughter in my throat. Something ancient and desperate that doesn't belong in a human face.

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