Eros (Olympia Alien Mail Order Brides Book 1)

by K. Cantrell

  Eros

  K. Cantrell

  Book Name: Eros

  Author Name: K. Cantrell

  Copyright:

  EROS

  Copyright © 2017 KAT CANTRELL

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Edited by Kimberly Cannon

  Cover by Croco Designs

  Contents

  Eros

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  About K. Cantrell

  More from Intergalactic Dating Agency

  Looking for Love on all the Wrong Planets

  Penelope Boswell needs a fake boyfriend to save her from her meddling family. But when the Intergalactic Dating Agency matches her with a sexy alien willing to play pretend in exchange for her help assimilating to Earth culture, she gets way more than she bargained for: Eros is seductive, pushy and has no intention of faking anything, least of all their relationship…

  Olympia Alien Mail Order Brides:

  Eros

  Ares

  Ajax

  One

  According to Cosmo, the average amount of time a woman can keep a secret is forty-seven hours and fifteen minutes. My family was not part of the control group because their average would have been closer to one point two seconds.

  This is how I know my sister Jenny is pregnant. Again. Alicia called Victoria, who called Deanna, and then you might as well post it on Facebook because my oldest sister is not the soul of discretion. But then none of my sisters see anything wrong with gossiping about babies twenty-four seven, even if one of the people they’re talking to is me and I can’t convince them that my world revolves around the salon I own. Not babies.

  I’m not even married. Don’t wanna be. Don’t like babies. Don’t want one. These are not hard concepts, but I’m the lone holdout in a family of six girls, all of whom seem to think they have a direct line to the happiness center of the universe and a husband who can give you lots of babies is it.

  Men are the problem, not the solution. I haven’t met one yet who could hold my interest longer than five seconds.

  Predictably, my mom waltzes into the salon about four minutes after I hang up with Deanna. The joys of living in a town the size of Olympia, where I can throw a rock and hit someone I share ancestry with. I can’t decide if I want to pretend I don’t already know about Jenny and let Mom have her fun. Fun being relative, no pun intended.

  Clementine, who’s manning the appointment desk near the front of the Victorian style house that I renovated and turned into Penelope’s Salon, calls out to my mother. “Hi, Mrs. Boswell. Time for a trim already?”

  My mom nods and asks after Clem’s uncle and eventually winds up in Flora’s chair. I refuse to cut my family’s hair and rarely make an exception, not even for my mom. Easier to avoid any potential disasters or hurt feelings.

  As Flora sprays down Mom’s hair, she starts in on me. “I met a nice boy the other day. He’s Sheila’s nephew. You remember her from my gardening club?”

  “Sure.”

  This conversation requires almost none of my attention as it’s a variation of a long-running theme that I can’t ever seem to nip in the bud. Get married and have babies like your sisters, Penelope. It’s the only way to fly, apparently. A career is not a valid reason for a Boswell to skip that rite of passage.

  “I’ll give him your number,” she announced like it’s a done deal. “You’ll like him.”

  “No thanks.” I don’t elaborate because I don’t think I should have to. Blind dates are not my thing, as I’ve explained. Multiple times.

  “Penelope.” She sighs and her mouth pinches up into a disappointed pout. “You’re going to be alone your whole life just to spite me?”

  Wow. She’s moved on to the hard sell. Usually she’s a little more subtle. Apparently Jenny’s news has really brought home the fact that I’m still single and childless. “My love life has nothing to do with you, shocking as that may be.”

  The real shocker might be that I don’t hate the idea of having someone special. But the salon takes a lot of my time and I enjoy running it. I do not enjoy apologizing for it, so I don’t.

  Snip, snip, snip. Flora gets about halfway through the cut before my mom figures out her next move. “The clerk at my dry cleaners has a brother—”

  “Mom, please.”

  “I just want you to be happy,” she insists, though in reality, if she wanted that, she’d believe me when I say I’m happy with my salon. “Like your sisters. What’s wrong with going out with one of these men I’ve found for you?”

  Oh, where should I start? But that’s the issue, I can’t get through to her with polite refusals, ignoring her or moving to Timbuktu.

  “Because I’ve already found one of my own,” I blurt out. I hate lying. But it just sort of comes out and now I’m stuck with the idea because she brightens instantly.

  “You didn’t tell me!” she scolds mildly, though I can tell she’s too pleased with this development to rake me over the coals. “I can’t wait to meet him. What’s his name? Where is he from?”

  Clementine, bless her, accidentally-on-purpose drops her Monster Energy drink onto the floor, spilling it everywhere with a loud exclamation of dismay that is Oscar-worthy. I can almost hear the froth eating through the hardwood finish but I say nothing as it’s the perfect distraction. I spring into action to help her clean up, praying the whole subject of this fictional man goes by the wayside.

  It doesn’t. As I toss the last paper towel into the trash bin, my mom throws out, “Bring your mystery man to brunch next Sunday.”

  To our once-a-month family brunch where six women with a combined total of twenty-three offspring will be in attendance? Sure, that sounds like the perfect event to take a man, fictional or otherwise. “He might be busy.”

  “Too busy to meet your family?” Mom’s mouth pinches up again and the lines of her face deepen. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of man you want to keep around. Maybe you could just talk to Sheila’s nephew? As a backup?”

  I stifle the groan. This is my due punishment for going down this path but it’s too late to bail now. “I’ll see what I can do about bringing…my guy to brunch.”

  My guy. Only quick thinking saved me from blurting out a name that I’d never remember later.

  “I’ll call you next week to make sure you don’t forget.” She gives me that look like she knows I’m going to try to think of some way to weasel out of it, but then smiles. “Oh, all this talk of your new boyfriend drove the news right out of my head.”

  Should have seen that one coming. “I heard. Deanna called me.”

  My mom is too excited about my fake boyfriend to care that I ruined her gossip, prattling on about how great it is that Jenny’s cooking baby number four before she hits thirty. That’s the subtly that I’m used to—insinuation that I’m lacking somehow because I’m thirty one and have zero babies.

  After an eternity
, Flora finishes up Mom’s trim and holds up a mirror. I definitely need to have a conversation with my stylist about when she can cut corners with a client and when she can’t. In this case, the faster she gets my mom out of her chair, the better. The moment Mom clears the door, I toss my phone onto the appointment desk with a resounding clatter.

  “Jenny’s pregnant,” I explain as Clem gives me the side eye. She’d taken care of a walk-in during the discussion and hadn’t heard.

  Her expression immediately softens as she uses two fingers to rearrange her stick straight hair. It falls into her face exactly the same way it did a minute ago. “Don’t feed into their baby mania. You can be happy and fulfilled without a man.”

  If only she didn’t quote me with a slight monotone and sad wistful eyes, it would have a little more punch. She doesn’t really believe it the way I do, though she gives it the college try. Men you can envision falling in love with are not thick on the ground in Olympia, Washington, home of slackers, an occasional software billionaire and so much mediocrity that we shatter the curve.

  “You don’t have to humor me.” I make a face at her and point to the nearest chair. “I told you I’d cut your bangs.”

  Clearly torn, Clem glances around the nearly empty shop save the one lone customer in Janet’s chair getting highlights. “I just took an hour for lunch. You don’t boss very well.”

  The smile I flash her comes from the heart. I love her like the sisters I wish I didn’t have. Okay, no, that’s not true. They’re not bad sisters, they’re just…not my tribe. I’m being ungrateful and selfish, which not so coincidently is why I would suck at mom-hood. I want to do the things I want to do when I want to do them. At least I figured this out before I dragged some unsuspecting nice guy into a marriage who really just wants a wife and two point four children and instead gets me.

  The middle aged lady in Janet’s chair glances at Clem and then up at me as I slide shears into my left hand—I’m ambidextrous, which is bar none my best skill when it comes to hair dressing.

  The lady, whom I’ve never seen in my shop before, smiles. “Your mom probably doesn’t realize how she comes across. I’m sure she has your best interests in mind.”

  Nodding, I comb Clem’s hair into a straight line above her head and start snipping vertically to give her blond hair some volume. A few strands come off in my hand from the roots because she’s either not using the shampoo I gave her or she’s sleeping on her hair wet again.

  “She’s a great mom,” I allow without missing a beat because there’s no privacy in a salon, and besides, I have zero need for an expensive therapist after a day with scissors in my hand. I love it when the atmosphere at Penelope’s gets cozy enough for strangers to feel like friends.

  The lady’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You have a good heart.”

  “She does,” Clem pipes up loyally and I didn’t even have to bribe her. We’ve been friends for a gazillion years and we watch out for each other. Which is why she’s working here temporarily as a receptionist when in reality, most of my customers book online. But when your friend comes sobbing to you about needing a job, you give her one.

  “Why you don’t find a man to pretend to be your hot and heavy lover?” the lady suggests with a wink because apparently it’s obvious to everyone except my mom that the new boyfriend doesn’t exist. “Throw them off the scent.”

  Well, why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just run to the store and pick up a fake boyfriend, then. Actually, I wouldn’t mind a real hot and heavy lover who knows the score and has no problems with double bagging it, but it turns out that isn’t a good conversational opener at bars.

  “Sounds fantastic,” I say absently. Something is off with Clem’s hair but I can’t put my finger on it. Well, I mean, I can because a long hank lays between two of them right now, but the ashy color bothers me since I didn’t put it there. “You know of any who are in the market to hang out with a workaholic at family events where pushy females will grill him with more skill than a police interrogator?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” The woman rummages around in her bag and like magic, she has my undivided attention, along with Clem’s and Janet’s too. “I’m a matchmaker. But not the normal kind. I specialize in the hardest of matches. Like yours. You should try my services.”

  She presses the card into my hand and since I’m slightly amused by the idea of using a matchmaker to find me a fake boyfriend, I slip the heavy cardstock into my pocket. “Thanks, I’ll check it out.”

  I won’t. What man would want to spend enough time with my overbearing mother and sisters to get them happy with the state of my love life while getting no return on investment? If I was a super goddess in bed, I could kind of see the trade-off but I spend a lot of time avoiding getting pregnant, not practicing my moves.

  But later that night, after four more phone calls from three sisters and one from me to Jenny to congratulate her because I’m not that much of a witch, I pull out the card again. A fake boyfriend had a few positives I could get behind, especially if he was in on the idea that we were not happening for real.

  Sure I might be a little lonely on national holidays and at three a.m. when I wake up to the sound of rain on my roof, thinking hey, it might be kinda nice to have someone to reach for occasionally. I live above the salon on the second floor of the Victorian house three streets from Percival Landing, and if you stand on tiptoes, you can see a tiny bit of Puget Sound from my bedroom window. Every hardwood plank on the floor is mine and I love it. But it echoes sometimes in a way that makes me wish for the sound of another person instead of still just me.

  And then I remember that men are a pain in the ass and I like my life the way it is—under control.

  The card sits on my nightstand next to a half empty glass of water, my phone and a lamp. I’m not one for clutter. But a fake boyfriend might not be as much clutter as a real one, and I can’t deny how fun it sounds to trot out a hot guy for my family. Strictly so they can stop worrying about me, no other reason. There’s nothing that says I can’t window shop the wares this matchmaker has in stock, right?

  Before I can think of all the many and varied reasons this is a bad idea, I pull up her website on my phone. Out of This World Matches. I smile. My grandma uses that phrase all the time, usually when describing my grandpa, who blushes and tells her she’s the cat’s meow. It’s sweet.

  That’s gotta be a sign. I tap the button that says Ready to Make a Match? Ugh, there’s a stupid profile and an ass-load of questions. Of course there are. What was I expecting? Magic? Dutifully, I complete all the spaces because it might not work right if I skip any and I’m painfully honest…until about halfway through when my eyes start to cross and then I realize if it’s going to be fake, what’s the point of trying to get a good match? I just need a match and the bigger sense of humor my fake boyfriend has, the better.

  What are you looking for in a man? One who can rock my socks off between the sheets

  What is your viewpoint on marriage? I’m basically looking for a husband who isn’t particular about how he gets a wife.

  Do you want children one day? The more the merrier.

  I have to laugh at myself on that one—clearly I am no longer taking this seriously. But if you can’t have fun filling out a profile for a fake boyfriend, when can you?

  On a scale of one to ten, rate how you deal with cultural differences?

  Cultural differences? What, like I might get a match who watches football for hours on end? Shrugging, I tap 10. If nothing else, running a salon means I meet all types and really I don’t care what my fake boyfriend does when he’s not playing the part of my lover.

  When I tap the answer to the last question, a submit button pops up. Finally. I send my profile off into the ether. That was likely a huge waste of time. There wasn’t even a question remotely like on a scale of one to ten, rate how real you want this relationship to be. So probably my profile will sit in a database for a year until they purge unm
atched women who didn’t answer the questions seriously.

  An email message preview invades the top section of my screen. It’s from Out of This World Matches. We have a match for you. Please make an appointment to meet your prospect.

  Um…what? This lark suddenly got real. I can’t go meet a prospective match. What would I say? Oh, this crazy chick in Janet’s chair said I should sign up for a match to get my mom to leave me alone. You’re cool with that, right?

  But then she did say she specialized in matches that weren’t traditional. In fact, it was her idea to throw out my hook for a pretend relationship. Surely she took that into account before she gave me the card. I don’t need anything fancy or special. Just a man who will show up at an occasional brunch who is in possession of a name I can toss into the conversation when a well-meaning family member tries to introduce me to yet another neighbor/nephew/delivery driver.

  Maybe I could casually check out the match. Nobody says I have to sign on the dotted line.

  Two

  The office of Out of This World Matches is way north on Boston Harbor Road and I swear I’m a stone’s throw from Canada when I finally see the turnoff. In reality, I haven’t hit the water yet, so I’m not that far from Olympia proper. It’s just rare that I go out of the city, usually because I’m working. Which is what I should be doing now, not driving to God knows where.

  Out here, it’s desolate and there’s nothing but a run-down house in this area. Supposedly this place with the sagging porch is it, according to my GPS. The pine trees tower over the house, crowding around it as if trying to squeeze out the interloper in this part of the forest, and the shadows lend a creep factor that adds to the ambiance. As soon as I exit the car, Charmaine, the lady who gave me the card, opens the door and waves.