Page 9 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

I bolt from my room, one shoe on, the other in hand. The stairs blur beneath my feet as I race down them. Mom reaches for the doorknob just as I grab it.

"I've got it!" I wheeze, trying to catch my breath while shoving my other heel on.

I yank open the door, and my breath catches. Charles Varakian fills the entire doorframe, his broad shoulders blockingout the porch light. But something's different about him. His face - it's not that uncanny perfection from this afternoon. The angles of his jaw seem softer, more natural. His skin has subtle variations in tone that weren't there before.

Maybe the harsh fluorescents at the pizza place played tricks on my eyes. In the warm evening light, he looks... well, still impossibly handsome, but human. As human as anyone can look while being built like a Greek statue and tall enough to need to duck through doorways.

His eyes lock onto mine, then drift down. The intensity of his gaze traces every curve the gold dress highlights, leaving tingles in its wake. Heat crawls up my neck as his attention lingers. I should feel objectified. I should say something sharp and witty. Instead, my skin prickles with electricity.

"You are stunning," he says in that deep voice with its strange accent. "I only hope that my gift is no insult to your beauty."

Behind me, Mom fans herself with her hand. "Oh my. You never say things like that to me anymore, Sam."

"I'm a pizza maker, not Shakespeare." Dad crosses his arms, but his lips twitch upward.

My knees wobble. The way Charles looks at me, speaks to me - it's like I'm the only woman in the world. No one's ever talked about me like that before. The accountant Mom mentioned? He told me I had 'nice organizational skills.'

But Dad's words from earlier echo in my head. Eight million dollars. That's what Charles wants to pay for our restaurant. For our family legacy. This could all be an act to get me to lower my guard.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Mom's whispers: So what if it is?

"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. "You didn't have to get me a gift, though."

Charles thrusts forward what looks like... a bouquet? My arms drop under the unexpected weight as I grab it reflexively.

"Of course I did," Charles says, his perfect smile gleaming. "Behold, a dozen of your planet's finest flours, as is your courtship custom."

I blink. The arrangement wobbles in my grip - actual bags of flour. Twelve of them. Artfully arranged on decorative sticks like some bizarre flower arrangement. The labels catch the porch light - Italian '00' flour, French T55, rare Japanese varieties I've only read about. My arms shake trying to hold up what must be twelve pounds of baking supplies.

Mom steps forward, stifling what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. "Here, let me take that."

"Can you believe this guy?" Dad throws his hands up in exasperation.

Mom's death glare could wilt flowers - or in this case, flours. Without breaking eye contact with Dad, she shoves the unwieldy bouquet into his chest. He grunts, staggering back a step under the weight.

My cheeks burn. I want to sink through the floor. But Charles stands there, beaming with such earnest pride at his clever gift that I can't bring myself to correct his misunderstanding. Your planet's finest flours? What an odd way to phrase it...

Charles guides me down the front steps, his arm a solid presence at my back. A sleek black limousine stretches along the curb like a polished shadow. Movement catches my eye - Mom and Dad's faces pressed against our second-floor window, not even trying to hide their surveillance.

"Oh for heaven's sake." I duck my head, but Charles follows my gaze and waves at them. Dad yanks the curtain closed. Mom waves back.

The driver materializes from nowhere, all crisp uniform and white gloves. He opens the rear door with a flourish that belongs in a movie.

Charles extends his hand to help me in. Such an old-fashioned gesture, but my fingers slip into his before I can overthink it. A tingle shoots up my arm at the contact - static electricity maybe? But there's something else. His skin doesn't feel quite... right. The texture is smooth, too smooth, like polished metal wrapped in the finest silk. Not unpleasant, just unexpected.

I settle onto butter-soft leather seats, trying not to gawk at the interior. The space could fit my entire bedroom. Charles slides in next to me, his presence filling the cabin with that same electric energy I felt when he touched my hand.

The limo purrs to life, gliding away from the curb. My parents' faces disappear into the darkness behind us. The silence stretches between Charles and me like a rubber band about to snap. His cologne fills the space - something expensive and unfamiliar that makes my head spin.

My fingers twist in my lap. Better to rip off the Band-Aid now.

"I just want to get this out in the open right away. I don't think my parents are going to sell no matter how much money you offer them. It's a Sicilian pride thing."

Charles turns those intense eyes on me. The streetlights passing outside paint shifting shadows across his face. "As you say. I'm much more interested in hearing about you. Are you from around here?"

The question catches me off guard. It's such a normal, almost boring first-date question from someone who just tried to buy my family's restaurant for eight million dollars.

"I was born and raised in Chicago. Never lived anywhere else." I shrug, watching the familiar streets roll past. "It's great.I love my parents, and my life, but sometimes I wish we could have gone on more vacations, seen other places."

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