by Cara Bristol
Two years ago, my brother had finished his plastic surgery residency and joined Dad’s practice, last year my sister had made partner, and me? I was officially…a failure. I had no titles before my name, no letters after my name, and no prospects of marrying up.
I tossed the envelope aside, and a whole bunch of other stuff fell onto the floor: an RSVP card for the wedding, a separate invitation for the rehearsal dinner, an RSVP card for that, and tissue paper.
I tasted the frosting again, letting the flavors settle on my tongue. Perfect. My client would be pleased. I wiped the residual stickiness from my fingers with the tissue paper before jotting down the recipe measurements in my tablet, just as the picto-phone app began to play Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.”
With a grimace, I propped the computer on a bowl and pressed accept.
“Hello, Mother,” I said when her image appeared on the screen.
She would have grimaced, if her Botoxed forehead would have allowed it, but she had to settle for transmitting disapproval through a glint in her hazel eyes. Checking an ingrained reaction to make myself more presentable by straightening my posture and ponytail, I slouched against the counter and waited for her to speak.
“Am I interrupting anything important?” Her tone indicated she was sure she wasn’t.
“I was testing frosting recipes.” I brushed powdered sugar from my shirt. Dammit! Old habits died hard. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“I wanted to let you know you’ll be receiving an invitation—”
“I got it. Toni’s getting married. Congratulations.” No doubt Mother considered the engagement her accomplishment. Back when my sister was seeking a law clerk position prior to passing the bar, my mother had arranged for her to meet Phillip through a sorority sister who served on the same charity board as she. Of course, Toni hadn’t let an opportunity slide by.
Unlike me.
“It’s customary to RSVP.”
“I only received the invitation this afternoon!” Opened it like sixty seconds ago.
“I just wanted to ensure you’ll be there.”
“I won’t miss Toni’s wedding.”
“You weren’t at her party at the country club when she made partner.”
Yeah, I’d skipped that. I hadn’t attended a family gathering yet where by the end of the evening my failings as a daughter and human being weren’t dissected and analyzed. I wasn’t a “professional,” I hadn’t married well—or at all—and I had no college degree, not one from a real school anyway. My associate’s in culinary arts from the community college counted for squat.
“I had to work,” I fibbed.
“You couldn’t take time off to celebrate your sister’s success?”
“Did she leave work to attend the grand opening of Your Just Desserts?”
“Your little hobby is hardly the same thing.” Mother’s surgically plumped lips formed a dismissive, but attractive, moue. She was one of Dad’s best patients. His surgical expertise had rolled back time, and people often commented to my mother that she and her daughters could be sisters. If they were really sucking up, they’d joke, “You must be the youngest.”
“It’s not a hobby, Mother. My pastry shop is a business.” You’d think I’d be used to being dissed by now, but it still hurt, so I tended to skip family get-togethers. Once an underachiever, always an underachiever—in their eyes. I’d never been forgiven for my average grades, for backpacking through Europe after high school and coming home with the announcement I’d decided to skip the university, for my inability to hook a monied and/or well-connected husband.
I wasn’t alone in the latter. On Earth, women outnumbered men, so eligible bachelors were few and far between. Men didn’t have to commit to get a woman—so they didn’t. My own brother continued to “play the field,” and my sister was marrying a man thirty years her senior.
Mother sniffed. “Let’s not fight. I called to make sure your schedule is free. You’re not in the wedding, but Antoinette would like all her family to attend the rehearsal dinner. It’s being catered by Chef Francois Bonnet at our Santa Barbara estate. Figure on staying for the entire weekend.”
I hadn’t looked that far ahead, but if I had, I would have planned to ditch the pre-wedding dinner and opt for a drive-by for the main event. I had nothing against my sister. With a five-year age gap, we hadn’t been close as children and never got closer as adults, but she was okay. It wasn’t her fault who her parents were.
“I’ll be there.” I could survive one weekend.
“Excellent. This could be beneficial to you. Quite a few members from the law firm are on the guest list. I’ll arrange for you to be seated next to a good prospect.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“You’re thirty years old, Alexandra—”
“Twenty-nine, Mother.” My birthday was four months away. Until the calendar struck September 5, I was still twenty-nine.
“And it’s time to get serious. I hope you had the foresight to freeze some of your eggs.”
“Oh, for the love of buttercream icing! Stop. Right there. Stop.”
“You’re not getting younger, and someday you might want to have children and make me a grandmother.”
I did want children, and I hated to admit it, but the odds weren’t looking too good, considering the dearth of eligible bachelors in general and my nonexistent dating life in particular. However, if I had children, it would be to suit myself, not my mother. “I’m sure Toni will take care of it before too long. She’s been first in everything else.” My mother would deny it with her dying breath, but my sister was her favorite child.
“Well, she’s only twenty-five, and she’s focused on her career right now. Plus, Phillip does have three children from previous relationships.”
Ohh… “And he doesn’t want any more?”
“I didn’t say that! Gossip is so unbecoming, Alexandra. All I’m saying is you need to think about your future.”
Business was booming at Your Just Desserts, my shop had gotten a chamber of commerce award for Best New Business and received high ratings in customer reviews on the ’Net, I had a great group of friends, and I owned my own home. I was doing pretty darn well, if I did say so myself. Why couldn’t she give me credit for what I had accomplished?
My temper rose. Never a good thing. “Maybe I have thought about my future. Maybe I applied to the Terra Dakon Goodwill Exchange Program.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Who says I’m joking?”
Desperate for men, many women signed up to become the mail-order brides of an alien race on planet Dakon. The planet was rich in illuvian ore, which could power just about anything, so Earth’s government had worked out a deal to trade females for rocks.
My mother clutched her throat, her lined neck the only feature that betrayed her age. “Please, tell me you didn’t.” Her fingers tangled in the multi-strand pearl necklace she wore to cover the wrinkles. She looked so horrified and concerned, I didn’t have the nerve to continue.
“No, I didn’t,” I admitted.
“Don’t scare me like that,” she said. “Despite our differences, you’re my daughter, I love you, and I couldn’t stand the idea of you leaving Earth and flying halfway across the galaxy. I might never see you again.”
Leaving Earth didn’t appeal to me, either, truthfully. I had a great life here, even if the social part sucked like an overly tart torte.
“It’s bad enough the aliens have come here,” she said.
“What?”
“At the Habitat for Unwed Mothers fashion show, I heard Kennedy Truman’s daughter is dating one.”
Gossip is so unbecoming. I wanted to toss her own words back at her, but then she might clam up, and this news was too juicy to let pass. “Here? On Earth? A real alien? How did that happen?”
“She met him through the Intergalactic Dating Agency, which matches Earth girls
with extraterrestrials.”
“You’re kidding.” While my mother didn’t think much of Your Just Desserts, it consumed my life. I’d been so busy baking and managing the business, I hadn’t been paying attention to much else. My preoccupation might have contributed to my lack of a dating life, I conceded wryly. “How long has this been going on?”
“A while. I’m so grateful Antoinette is marrying a successful human man. You’re not married, but at least you’re not with a huge purple alien.”
Apparently, my mother wasn’t as desperate for grandchildren as I’d assumed. “Speaking of marriages, I assume Toni will be contacting me about the wedding cake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t she want me to do the cake for her?”
My mother tittered. “Oh no, dear. Your little homemade cakes are good, but for the wedding, we’ll need one that’s professionally done. Anyway, I’m pleased you’ll be there. I have to run, now. I have a Friends of the Homeless tea. I’ll be in touch.”
The screen blanked out.
Your little homemade cakes are good, but for the wedding, we’ll need one that’s professionally done. I doubted she even realized she’d insulted me. I might have forgiven the slight if her opinion had been based on true and honest experience, but to my knowledge, my mother had never tried my cakes. Our history colored her assessment of everything I did.
I handled the wedding invitation. Miss Alexandra Katherine Gates Sutterman and guest. My siblings and I carried my mother’s maiden name as well as our father’s surname because while he had been quite successful, my socialite mother was a Gates of the Sinclair Gates, old money dating back to the California Gold Rush. Her name could open doors—or shut them, depending on her whim.
Miss Alexandra Katherine Gates Sutterman and guest. I could bring a plus-one.
Intergalactic Dating Agency, huh?
* * * *
What rock had I been hiding under not to have known about this? The Intergalactic Dating Agency was plastered all over the ’Net—reviews, interviews, YouTube vids of the program as well as of the dates women had gone on, and even wedding ceremonies with the aliens. I stared at one woman’s purple groom. He was kind of cute in a tentacled way.
I logged onto the agency’s website and nibbled a fingernail still tasting of cherries. I read the introductory materials, the FAQs, the client testimonials. Watched the promo video of smiling couples horseback riding into the sunset. Did I really have the guts to bring an alien to my little sister’s wedding?
Thirty years old.
Freeze your eggs.
Little homemade cakes.
I opened an account and secured it with a password. Immediately, the site redirected me to a new screen.
Welcome to the Intergalactic Dating Agency! We’re thrilled you’ve decided to use our exclusive dating service. Everyone deserves to love and be loved, so we’ve scoured the galaxy to find your perfect match, the partner who will make all your dreams come true…
Before we can identify your Mr. Right, we need to get a little information about you and what you’re looking for. Please complete this short 45-minute questionnaire.
Forty-five minutes? That’s what they considered short? I almost gave up then, but the mental picture of my mother’s face when I showed up to dinner with an alien convinced me the time investment was worth it.
The first section was easy, just vital statistics: age (twenty-nine), eye color (brown), hair color (brown), distinguishing features or marks (tattoo of a cupcake on my left shoulder), height (5’6”), and weight (ahem). I answered truthfully, except for the last question in which I shaved off a few pounds. It wasn’t a complete lie. I used to weigh that. My freshman year of high school.
Why did you decide to seek an alien mate?
“Torqueing my mother’s gourd” probably wasn’t the right answer. Deferred adolescent rebellion? Ditto. I couldn’t be too honest, or I’d be screened out of the program.
“I’m looking for true love, and I’m willing to search the galaxy to find it,” I wrote. I didn’t think I had a snowball’s chance of finding amore with an extraterrestrial, but I’d give the agency a shot at helping me out. As long as I got a date for the wedding weekend, I’d consider this experience a win.
How open-minded are you? Are you aware aliens may differ physically, socially, and culturally from humans?
Well, I hoped so! What would be the point of bringing a button-downed preppie home to meet Mom?
“The heart does not see differences, it sees only similarities,” I wrote.
There were more questions designed to ascertain my psychological suitability to date an alien, and then the agency got down to specifics with a check-the-box multiple-choice section.
Your match will be based on your social and psychological profile. However, if there is an alien species you would prefer not to date, please indicate by marking the box. Dakonian, Xenian, Farian, Parseon, Arcanian, Malodonian, Rotarian, Slime Crawler, Dragonian…
I had no idea what any of those people were, but going on name alone, I omitted Slime Crawler. It just didn’t sound like we would be a good fit. Then I nixed Dragonian. It sounded too much like dragon. I wanted to shock my mother, not ruin my little sister’s wedding by having my plus-one set the gazebo on fire.
Our alien male clients are generally humanoid in appearance; however, they may have physical traits that humans do not. Are there any features that would be unacceptable to you? Please mark the box.
Tentacles
Scales
Tail
Horns
Antennae
Webbed hands or feet
Rotae
Non-humanoid flesh tones such as purple, blue, green, gold, red, or silver.
Phosphorescence
Claws
Wings
Extreme height
They all sounded perfect to me, although I had to look up what rotae meant. Turned out some aliens didn’t have legs, they had wheels. Huh. Who knew? After giving it some consideration, I nixed rotae because there were a lot of steps going down to the garden gazebo area where my sister would be getting married, and I would hate for him to roll down the stairs and hurt himself.
Although a gold-toned alien would be richly appropriate, and a silver one would match the color spoon my mother had in her mouth, I hoped for purple. A nice, bright violet with complementary yellow tentacles. If he glowed in the dark, that would be even better.
It took me 44.5 minutes to complete the questionnaire. I read it over, tweaked a few of my answers then touched submit.
Thank you for completing the profile questionnaire. We will be in touch when your perfect match is found.
Revenge is best served sweet with a hot, horned alien
Free-spirited pastry chef Lexi Sutterman has discovered that true love is pie in the sky. The only thing more difficult than finding an Earth man willing to commit is pleasing her wealthy, hypercritical family who view her as a failure. So she’s given up on both, focusing her energy on her new bakery. When her uber-successful little sister manages to nab a well-heeled fiancé, Lexi fights back by joining the Intergalactic Dating Agency. She plans to bring a huge, purple, tentacled alien as her plus-one to the wedding.
Darak of planet Dakon isn’t purple or tentacled—he’s just seven feet of horned alien hotness. To get a woman on his world, a guy has to literally win the lottery. Tired of waiting for the Fates to send him a female, he joins the dating service to meet a nice Earth girl to call his own. He recognizes Lexi as his true mate, but realizes convincing her they’re meant to be together forever and not just for a weekend will be no cakewalk.
When a sweet-tart pastry chef and a horned alien hottie fall in love, everyone might get their just desserts…
Download Darak from your preferred bookseller.
Alien Mate series
Alien Mate (Book 1)
Alien Attraction (Book 2)
/> Alien Intention (Book 3)
Dakonian Alien Mail-Order Brides
Intergalactic Dating Agency
Darak
Aton
Caid
Cy-Ops Cyborg Romance series
Stranded with the Cyborg (Book 1)
Married to the Cyborg (Book 1.5)
Mated with the Cyborg (Book 2)
Captured by the Cyborg (Book 3)
Trapped with the Cyborg (Book 4)
Claimed by the Cyborg (Book 5)
Rescued by the Cyborg (Book 5.5)
Hunted by the Cyborg (Book 6)
Breeder sci-fi romance series
Breeder (Book 1)
Terran (Book 2)
Warrior (Book 3)
Other titles
Destiny’s Chance
Goddess’s Curse
Longing
Naughty Words for Nice Writers (A Romance Novel Thesaurus)
Anthologies
Portals
Body Talk
Audiobooks
Stranded with the Cyborg
Mated with the Cyborg
Books in Print
Alien Mate
Captured by the Cyborg
Claimed by the Cyborg
Goddess’s Curse
Naughty Words for Nice Writers
About Cara Bristol
USA Today Bestselling Author Cara Bristol writes character driven science fiction romance with humor, heart, and heat. She loves introducing new readers to science fiction romance, and likes to say she writes sci-fi for readers who don’t like sci-fi. When she’s not writing (ha ha ha – she’s almost always writing) she enjoys traveling to exotic destinations and chillaxin’ with her favorite reality TV shows. Cara lives in Missouri with her own alpha hero, her husband.
