by Cara Bristol
“I tried local food, too, and paid for it with the money we replicated. They didn’t test it.”
“I noticed they weren’t testing the smaller denominations, only the larger ones,” Psy said. “But it was explained to me that money you print yourself isn’t legal. It has no value. It’s worthless paper.”
“If we can’t make our own money, we can’t pay for the parts and services we need.” Tigre paced the bridge. “We need replacement parts to repair the main replicator to make parts! The portable one is too small to fabricate solar panels, hyperdrive units, or engine cores.”
Chameleon shook his head. “We can’t risk arrest by passing any more bad money and to do so would cheat the humans,” he said, feeling guilty for passing worthless paper to Millie. “Where would we go for parts anyway? The little town I visited had nothing like what we need.”
“While you two gadabouts were out having lunch, I used an Earth Internet search engine to locate a large industrial center several hundred miles away. It’s called Seattle,” Wingman said. “Besides an aircraft building factory and a naval base, the Seattle area has a large computer geek population, and a satellite office of the Intergalactic Dating Agency. People will be more receptive to us there, and we’ll have a better chance to get what we need.”
“We’ll still need money,” Psy said.
“We’ll have to get jobs,” Chameleon suggested.
“Doing what?” Inferno asked. He’d been silent, just observing.
“I’m not sure, but I can return to Argent and see if anyone is offering any employment opportunities.” He omitted to mention he’d met the woman from the woods. Wingman would bring up the humiliating bear spray incident.
“I can return to Coeur d’Alene and look into employment there, too,” Psy said.
“I can do that also,” Shadow volunteered
Tigre nodded at Inferno and Wingman. “We all will.”
Psy shook his head. “Not recommended. Our initial inclination to approach the locals with caution was wise. I did a little light mental probing in town, and the humans were not receptive to aliens. Most don’t believe extraterrestrial life exists, and the few who do are hostile. They’re afraid of being abducted and used for scientific experiments.”
Considering the Xenos’ history, the humans’ fears weren’t ungrounded. The consortium accepted on faith they were the most advanced beings in the universe and believed without question that superiority granted them dominion over every other living thing. They were the creators and the destroyers. Xeno gave, and Xeno took. Until now, they had forgotten about Earth. The Castaway had outrun and lost the fighter in jump space. But it wouldn’t go well for the humans if the consortium discovered Earth harbored ’Topian escapees.
“Did you get that same sense humans in Argent wouldn’t react well to us?” Tigre looked at Chameleon.
He couldn’t read minds like Psy, but he’d noticed no sign in Argent to indicate locals had ever encountered extraterrestrials. They’d been friendly, but…“If I had to guess, I’d say no, they wouldn’t.”
“You guess?” Wingman said.
“My mind-reading skills are as good as yours,” Chameleon snapped sarcastically.
Tigre shot a warning glare at both of them and then said, “We know our next steps. Get jobs if we can, and find out who in Seattle can help us repair the replicator. Working among humans will give us a better idea of who we can trust, who we can’t. We got lucky when Chameleon chased off the woman who came to investigate, but the longer we stay here, the greater the chance of discovery.”
“Human technology is light-years away from what we’re familiar with. Their industrial centers may not be able to produce what we need,” Shadow said. “If we can’t fix the ship, we can’t leave.”
Until now, no one had dared to voice the sobering possibility. They’d been pumped, ready to charge out and solve the problem, but Chameleon didn’t need to be a Verital to sense the dip in optimism. His body tingled as his skin changed from blue to grayish green, a reflection of his dejected mood.
Ever the leader, Tigre said, “Let’s not worry until we have to. We have a plan. We should focus on what we can do now.”
“Maybe we can contact the Intergalactic Dating Agency for assistance,” Inferno said. “We’re not here for mates, but they might know someone who can help us.”
“That’s an idea,” Tigre said.
“I’d be happy to take that on,” Inferno said.
“Go for it.”
That summed up all they could do: go for it.
Chapter Seven
Kevanne awakened to the pitter-patter of rain, but no leaks, thank YouTube. Following the video instructions, she’d patched the roof the day before. She lay in bed staring at the brown stain left by the leak. If she squinted with one eye, it kind of resembled an iguana…or maybe an alien. She rolled out of bed and donned her thick, heavy robe, shoving her feet into fuzzy scuffs. She nudged up the heat then shuffled into the kitchen and pressed start on the coffee pot.
Hugging herself against the chill, she leaned against the counter to wait. When there was enough for a cup, she filled a mug. Cupping it in both palms, she inhaled and then took a bracing drink. She sipped and grinned, recalling Cam Leon’s reaction to the coffee—and how much sugar and artificial sweetener he’d dumped into it. Where could he be from to be so unfamiliar with coffee and a basic American meal? And his accent. She’d never heard anything like it.
The shocker, though, had been seeing the billboard. He’d implied he’d been passing through and had car trouble, but he never did say where he’d been headed. Strangers didn’t usually turn up in Argent this time of year. It was too late for skiing and too early for boating and swimming. The first big event to draw out-of-towners would be the annual spring fling.
Which was coming up next week. This would be her first year as a vendor instead of an attendee. She had high hopes. The festival attracted a crowd, drawing the locals as well as quite a few out-of-towners. She suspected the latter owed to the fact not much happened at this time of year. People were bored and desperate for something to do.
Last year the TV station from Spokane, Washington had covered the event. She hoped they’d come again because she’d signed up for a booth to sell lavender products and promote the upcoming opening of Lavender Bliss Farm & Gift Shop. Speaking of which, she needed to get her swag together. Two hundred tiny mesh bags needed to be filled with potpourri. Normally she wouldn’t wait until the last minute, but the tiny nylon mesh bags had been backordered and only arrived yesterday. Filling them would be a good rainy day project.
So would caulking around the windows and applying weather stripping to the doors to keep the heat in and the cold out. Some of the interior doors had become so swollen, they didn’t close properly and needed to be planed. Knobs were loose. The bathroom and kitchen faucets needed to be replaced. The toilet ran all the time unless she jiggled the handle.
Those projects, however, didn’t have a deadline. The sachets for the spring fling did. She realized she’d been premature in advertising for a handyman. Despite a long list of interior honey-dos, the high-priority jobs were outside: plowing the field, planting lavender, painting the exterior of the gift shop before it got more weathered, and sprucing up the signage. She could live with a slow-running or leaky faucet, but she had to get the farm and gift shop up and running this year. But until the weather improved, the high-priority jobs were on hold.
Not that she expected much of a response to her flyer.
So. Sachets. She’d fill the little bags and then maybe knock out some of the items on her honey-do list herself. She could plane a door. It couldn’t be that hard to change a faucet, could it?
She topped off her cup and turned to go shower and dress.
A man’s face pressed against her kitchen window.
She screamed. Her cup flew out of her hand and shattered on the linoleum, spraying coffee everywhere. Call 9-1-1. Oh god. My phone. Where is it? H
er gaze bounced around the tiny kitchen. Bedroom. Charger, by the bed. She inched toward the other room. What if the burglar tried to break in? The single-paned glass would smash so easily. The door locks were so flimsy, she’d jiggled one open when she’d locked herself out. Replace locks with deadbolts. Another item for the handyman list.
Oh god.
“Kevanne Girardi! I came for the handyman job!”
That voice!
Her gaze shot to the window. Cam Leon waved her flyer. “I want to be your handyman!” he yelled.
She glanced at the time on the coffeepot—8:11 a.m. What kind of person other than an axe murderer didn’t bother to call or ring the doorbell, and instead, showed up at someone’s kitchen window at eight in the morning?
Someone who’d never eaten a hamburger or drunk a cup of coffee?
She didn’t see an axe, only her flyer, which was getting soggy.
“I came to work! Is the job still available?” Rain poured down his handsome face.
Just because he’s handsome doesn’t mean he’s not an axe murderer.
What do I do? Call the police or talk to him?
Obviously the mayor and the town council or at least the ad agency knew him—they’d used him for the billboard. His larger-than-life persona was plastered over the highway.
Decision time. Talk to him…or not? “Go around to the front,” she yelled. “I’ll meet you on the porch.”
She waited until he ambled off then she ran to her bedroom and grabbed her phone, slipping it into her pocket, before racing to the front entry. As she reached for the baseball bat she kept behind the door, she spied her yellow rain slicker hanging on the coat rack. The bear spray! She fished the canister from the pocket, giving it a little shake. Still half full.
She flung open the door. “What are you doing here?”
“You advertised for a handyman. I came to apply. Is the job still available?”
“You’re supposed to call first,” she said.
“I didn’t know that.”
Figures.
“I don’t have a calling device…yet,” he said.
“How did you find out where I live?” For security, she’d omitted her name and mention of Lavender Bliss Farm, only listing her phone number and that the job was “near Argent.”
“Millie told me where to find you.”
What the hell! She scowled. Millie knew she was a widow living alone. What was she thinking to give out her address to a complete stranger? On the other hand, Millie had sent him here, so if Kevanne turned up dead, the police would have a lead on a suspect. Which kind of gave him some credibility…maybe? “Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”
“The button next to the door? I pushed it but nothing happened.”
She jabbed the button. Nothing. Dead as a doornail…something else for a handyman to fix.
Cam Leon shivered, his fingertips turning blue. Wet hair plastered to his scalp. Raindrops clung to his eyelashes. She scanned the front yard and what she could see of the long gravel driveway curving through the woods to the road. “Where’s your car?”
“I have a…scooter. I parked it around the bend.”
“You rode here on a scooter? In the rain?”
His shivering got to her. If he was an axe murderer, he’d come woefully unprepared. No axe. No getaway car. No umbrella. His picture was plastered on the highway. Millie, who she trusted, had sent him. He had to be legit. But if he could get a modeling gig, why would he want to work as a handyman? Then again she’d experienced firsthand how one’s fortune could reverse. Once she’d lived in a gated community with all the luxuries money could buy. Now she squeaked by in a fixer-upper and bought everything secondhand at the thrift store. Money didn’t buy happiness…
“Come inside. We’ll talk. If you know what’s good for you, don’t try anything funny.” She brandished the bear spray.
He recoiled, nearly falling off the porch.
His reaction seemed a little over-the-top, but at least he’d gotten the message she meant business. If he made one wrong move, she’d zap him! Seated in the diner, she hadn’t noticed how big he was. All muscled bulk with a massive chest and broad shoulders, he towered over her five-foot-seven frame. He was damn near as big as that bear. But strangely, oddly vulnerable…
Vulnerable. Right. Because I’m such a great judge of character. She stifled a self-deprecating snort, stepped back, and gestured for him to enter.
He avoided hitting his head by about an inch, and his shoulders brushed the doorframe.
She followed him inside and shut the door. He consumed the space of her small living room, making her feel tiny—and aware she was in her pajamas and robe. She tightened the belt.
“I’d, um, offer you a cup of coffee, but you don’t like it.” She moved around the room, switching on lamps. The sun had risen, but the gray, rainy skies kept the day as dark as dusk.
“No.” He screwed up his face like a little boy refusing spinach, and she almost laughed. She’d never met a man who appeared both rough and rugged and cute.
She cocked her head. “Unless you let me fix you a cup the way it’s supposed to be?” She preferred her coffee black, but with a “normal” balance of milk and sugar, he might like it, and she could claim another coffee convert, she joked to herself. In reality, she’d get him settled with a drink while she donned some armor. She’d feel more in control when she was dressed. If these eventful mornings were going to continue, she would have to switch her shower schedule to the evening.
He hesitated. “All right. Thank you.”
“Come on into the kitchen.”
Broken glass and coffee splattered the floor. She’d forgotten she’d dropped her cup.
He eyed the mess. “I scared you. I’m sorry.”
“You startled me. I wasn’t expecting a man to peer into my window. Let me clean the mess.” She slipped the bear spray into her robe pocket so she could clean up the mess. She swept up the shards and blotted the liquid with paper towels. Black coffee wasn’t sticky, so the floor could wait to be mopped. After washing her hands at the dribbling kitchen faucet, she grabbed a mug from the cupboard. In his coffee she added a spoonful of sugar and a small amount of milk.
“Try this.” She handed him the coffee. “Let me know if you’d like it sweeter or lighter.”
She almost chuckled at his expression, wary, as if she was attempting to poison him. Her tension released, and she relaxed.
Only to become flustered when their fingers brushed and her arm tingled. Their eyes met, and her stomach fluttered with a heated sensation. Her therapist had said she should give herself time to heal before she started dating, and she’d agreed. She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to date. She damn sure never wanted to get married again.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and dropped her gaze. His fingertips were still blue—not the purple normally associated with cold, but a deep sky blue.
He raised the mug to his lips. “It’s not bad!”
She laughed at his wide-eyed expression. “I might turn you into a coffee drinker, yet.”
He took a large gulp. “Maybe. What did you put in this to make it better?”
“A teaspoon of sugar and dash of milk. You added too much sweetener to your coffee yesterday. One packet—or two—of sugar is about all you need. And the artificial stuff is way sweeter.”
“You make good coffee. Thank you.” He smiled with his whole face.
Inside, she lit up, clutching the unexpected compliment like a treasure. How long had it been since anyone had praised her efforts for anything? Her therapist’s encouragement—“you’re making great progress”—hardly counted.
“Um, well, you’re welcome. Why don’t you, uh, have a seat at the kitchen table? I’ll get dressed, and then we’ll talk.”
He sat, and she fled, locking the bedroom door behind her—just in case.
Chapter Eight
The door creaked and then clicked, and Chameleon sighed with relief. With Keva
nne out of sight, he could regain control. Her presence had caused his body to go haywire.
He’d been attracted to her yesterday, but the way she appeared his morning, attired in a long, light-purple robe, impractical but charming fuzzy shoes, her hair mussed, her expression alternately open and bemused, made him want to pull her into his arms and hug her tight. Kiss her. Their fingers had touched when she handed him the cup, and hot desire had rocked him clear down to his bluing fingertips. He’d begun losing the personification again! He didn’t think she’d noticed, but he had to get himself under control.
After another gulp of the delicious coffee, he set the mug down and inhaled several deep, calming breaths. Blocking distractions, he closed his eyes and focused on what he wanted to become—the man on the billboard. He pictured his new form, willed the change, and when he opened his eyes, his fingers had returned to normal. Well, back to human anyway.
He drained the last sip of coffee. He wondered if preparing another cup for himself was allowed. Better not. He’d caught the gist peering into someone’s window was not permissible. He’d frightened Kevanne so bad, she’d dropped her cup. He considered himself lucky she hadn’t blinded him with the bear spray again.
She’d waved it around, and all he could think of was he didn’t have Psy to help him if she shot him.
He smoothed the flyer she’d posted in the bait shop. The paper had gotten wet while he stood in the rain outside her window, but he could still read it. HELP WANTED HANDYMAN.
He was a man, and he liked to think he was handy, so the employment offering seemed like a good fit, although he wondered what the specifics entailed. After the discussion aboard the Castaway last night, he’d gone into Argent and asked the first man he’d encountered about jobs. The man had directed him to the bait shop across the street from the diner.
The handyman ad was the only employment opportunity. He hadn’t realized Kevanne had posted it at first because it didn’t have a name, just a number. He didn’t have a phone. Busy selling bait to a couple of fishermen, the proprietor couldn’t talk, so Chameleon had taken the ad to the diner.
