Page 8 of Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef

Three

NELAN

“Let’s focus on serving the restaurant guests first, then the General,” Laura announces. For once, she actually has a good idea. I’m tempted to check if the sky is falling.

I stare at the chaos before me, my cybernetic hand twitching. Ever since Laura entered my life, the kitchen, my sanctuary of order and precision, has been reduced to a primitive war zone, invaded by an unrepentant foe armed with culinary chaos. Pots and pans lay strewn about, covered in questionable substances that I pray aren’t toxic. And in the middle of it all stands Laura, her face smudged with what I hope is flour, grinning like she’s just discovered fire. Again.

Everything about this female drives me utterly insane. I’ve witnessed proud nobles become simmering fools in the presence of beauty... and I now understand why. Laura’s very presence throws your life into disorder. Her scent is bewitching, her smile lethal; males would kill just to see those luscious lips quirk. I fear I may be one of them,though with my luck, I’d probably just end up maiming myself with a spoon.

“Is this everything?” I ask as I glare down at the colorful array before us, refusing to meet her eyes. I recognize the produce from my days as head chef for the Volscian royal family, even many of the more exotic ingredients. I have no idea how she plans to combine these. By all accounts, she should not know. Why does this little female insist on doing a male’s job? She should be out in the comforts of the restaurant, her every need met by a doting mate. Definitely not slaving away in the heat and dangers of a working kitchen.

Though, given her penchant for culinary anarchy, perhaps it’s safer for everyone if she stays right where I can keep an eye on her.

Laura nods, her eyes sparkling. “Yep, this should do it. Thanks, Nelan.”

It’s as if Laura thinks that waving sharp objects around and hoping for the best qualifies as a legitimate culinary technique. She has no experience working in a high-stress environment, and she should never need to experience it. Not if I have my way. And despite my best efforts to get her out of my kitchen, she acts like she owns the place. At this rate, I half expect her to start charging me rent.

I withhold the growl that builds in my throat. If only she let me take care of her for once! But no, that would be far too simple for the walking contradiction that is Laura.

“They aren’t the original ingredients, obviously,” she tells me as she sorts through the ingredients, her movements quick and confident. “But close enough to them. Though I have no idea what this thing is.”

She holds up agreen leafy ball about the size of her fist. She scowls down at it, a crease forming between her delicate eyebrows.

Beautiful. That’s the word I’d use to describe her. The way her eyes sparkle as she studies it, turning it in her slender fingers. It’s almost enough to make me forget the impending culinary disaster we’re facing. Almost.

“A Sobra fruit,” I tell her, and then realizing she has no idea of the delicacy she holds, I add, “It’s sweet and tart. Good for a dessert or for species that lack strong taste buds and need an extra oomph.”

“Good to know,” she replies, setting it aside.

I blink. Did she literally just ask me to bring a bit of everything to the table? Is she making up a recipe on the spot?

Oh, we are so screwed…

I sigh heavily. I want to be screwed, but not in this manner…

Despite the stress of our current situation, Laura seems entirely in her element. It’s... oddly captivating. There’s something about just seeing her gracefully move amongst the chaos, humming a happy tune. I wish I could be as relaxed as her right now.

She deserves better than this. A dark and hot kitchen is no place for a flower as sweet as her. I desperately want to send her away to relax, yet whenever I go to say the words… Why does the thought of her not by my side each day hurt so much?

Because I want her here, I admit to myself. Too bad I’ll never be able to have her. She’s made that much clear over the last few weeks.

“So,” I say, leaning against the counter in what I hope is a casual pose, “what exactly are we preparing for dinner?”

“We’re going to make enchiladas,” Laura turns to mewith a grand smile. She’s more excited about this than I thought. “We might need to make a couple batches, but this should work well.”

If only she knew the risks of one wrong ingredient or one wrong measurement. At least with me by her side, watching her every move, she won’t have a chance to make that mistake. I’ll make sure that no such threat will ever reach her. The kitchen is my domain, and everything here will be perfect. Just like how she is. Well, perfect in an imperfect, chaotic, drives-me-up-the-wall kind of way.

“It’s a traditional dish from my family’s culture,” she tells me. “Tortillas filled with meat and cheese, then covered in sauce and baked. Well, fried since our oven’s electric and not working.”

I scowl at the visual. I have no idea what a tortilla is, but I’m imagining all the ingredients thrown into a pan, soft and undercooked. It sounds like something a drunk Volscian would concoct after a night of heavy drinking.

A smirk tips the corner of her luscious lips, ones that I have longed to kiss for far too long now. “Don’t tell me the great Chef Nelan is intimidated by a little primitive Earth cuisine?”

I scoff, straightening to my full height. I might not ever be able to make her mine, but I can make her smile, her breath quicken, and pulse race… There is a perverse comfort in knowing I affect her as much as she does me. Even if that effect is usually exasperation.

“Hardly,” I tell her. “I simply question the wisdom of experimenting with unfamiliar recipes during such a crucial dinner service.”

Laura snorts. “No comment about the primitive bit, huh?”

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