Chosen by the Alien Above Part 3: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance Serial (3 page)

It reminded me of the gel, in my bed, in my boots. Seemingly everywhere.
 

“I apologize,” he said. “I should've remembered plates. It's been so long since I've use them. I don't honestly know where to look.”

He stared toward the ceiling in the distant corner. “Cos, do we have plates?”

“Yes, Noah. The galley is equipped with one hundred full sets—“

“Thanks.” He turned back to me. “I just have to find them now.” He stood to depart.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Pizza is the highest form of finger food yet invented.”

I looked up at him and almost fainted. He was seriously seven feet tall. Huge. And ripped. Sexy as muscled up sin. What was that gray suit made of? It didn’t have the same artificial sheen that mine had. It looked alive.

I rubbed the surface of the table and looked at Noah. “What is this stuff?”

“My best estimation is that it's an organic transformable tissue. A protective epidermis that can change states according to environmental stimuli or higher-level decision making.”
 

I narrowed my eyes in disbelief. “You mean like smart skin?”

“Something like that, yes.”

I rubbed the table some more wondering where the crumb went. Did it get digested?

“So if it’s like skin, but isn’t. Then what is it exactly?” I asked.

“I wish I knew.”

I didn’t let that comment go. Okay, I did. But I didn’t have a choice. Deep dish pizza sang in hot, sultry tones.
 

We feasted with barely a word exchanged. Noah’s hunger reflected in the rarity of the dish.

To say we feasted like kings would've given something to kings they didn't deserve. We loved that pizza like a family member. Like it was our last pizza on earth.

Maybe it was.

There was no higher use for cheese then being melted in a gooey marinara mess. For cheese, it was like a human achieving Nirvana. Or Enlightenment as the wise Gouda laid out.

I didn't know if cheese thought that much about the afterlife, or if elevating pizza to salvation was blasphemy. I did know the drowsy warmth in my belly was a welcome, grounding change. I popped a last bite into my mouth and the buttery, light, flaky crust melted on my tongue.

This was seriously pizza heaven.

I swallowed the last morsel with more than a little regret. I would have swallowed more regret but I was stuffed. I dabbed the napkin over my lips, to hide the evidence of my eager eating.

Noah raised his glass.

“To Italy. May her boot always kick culinary ass!”

“This is from Chicago.”

“It’s all down there.”

I giggled and held my glass to his, softly touching in the silent air. My giggle squelched to a stop as his eyes caught mine. He snared me with a look.
 

It wasn’t like the trap was tricky. I leaped into that damned thing like I didn’t need a leg. The food in my belly lit an earthy fire. A lusty, woodsy desire that wanted to mate with the male sitting across from me. My pulse quickened and throbbed in my earlobes. I wanted to ride him. Grind my body on his until one of
 
us lost our minds.
 

He drove me crazy. Emotionally unstable was putting it kindly. It took every ounce of resolve I had not to climb across the table and mount him. It took that much and then I had to take a loan out for a few more because it was that hard.
 

He was that hard.

I had to change directions. I was a rabbit running in a straight line from my pursuer. I wanted to be caught. I wanted to feel his mouth sink into me, even if it also brought my end.

I took a deep breath and sipped the remainder of my glass. It wasn’t much, but it had an effect. My thoughts swirled lower, my brain balked at losing control.

I had to get my brain back in charge, steering the ship.

Only one question came to mind.

"Mr. Sinclair, why did you choose me? Surely there were ten thousand others more qualified. Why me?"

The fire in his eyes wavered. The spell on me broke. Okay, it didn’t break. It cracked. Some air got in. Enough for me to catch a breath. That was the important thing.

"With regard to your reporting credentials," he said, "you wouldn't have stood out from the crowd."

And things were going so well.

I dropped my glass on the table. I tossed it roughly enough to get a satisfying spill out of what little was left. It teetered over and should've gone the rest of the way. Instead, it righted itself and and came to a stop. The table underneath the round base shimmered for a moment before it went solid again.

Apparently this gel skin was about as smart as Cosmo. Or dumb. Because it didn't get the nuance of my throw. I wanted the drama of an overturned flute!
 

I grimaced. This station was trying to control me just as Noah was. I shot him my best snarl.

"Thanks for being honest. So nice."

"I don't think I'm telling you something you didn't already know," he said.

It must've been in one the missing chapters from his how to relate to women handbook.

"This might be news to you, but a girl doesn't want to hear how she's middle of the pack. How nothing about her stands out enough to draw attention."

Maybe he wasn't missing pages or chapters. Maybe he had an ancient edition. One printed in medieval times when it was standard for a man not to give two shits about a woman. If we were going to get anywhere together, professionally I meant, he was going to have to get the update.

"I never said you didn’t stand out, Cora."

"And I never said you could call me Cora, Mr. Sinclair."

"You do stand out."

My temper flared. The thump in my temples had nothing to do with the fading heat between my legs. Gorgeous or not, I wasn't going to sit here and be insulted.

"I do stand out, Mr. Sinclair. And mostly because of this hideous, hot pink unitard you forced me to wear. Did you think that maybe I'd like more than a single choice? You are aware that making a choice implies more than one option?"

He laughed. "It looks hot on you."

"It looks hot because this particular shade is a slap to the eyeball."

"You misunderstand me, Ms. Gabarro.
You
make it hot. The color is superfluous. Your curves are the cause."

I was going to need a high-speed elevator to keep up with the highs and lows of this conversation.

"You didn't answer my question. A girl likes to have choices."

"Every choice is still yours to make, Ms. Gabarro. I'm surprised you haven't understood that already."

Were we talking about the hideous pink unitard?

"Why does every word you say sound like
hot pink
in my ears?"

"Why aren’t you asking the right questions?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What's your favorite color, Ms. Gabarro?"

"Periwinkle. Why?"

"All you had to do was ask Cosmo to change it for you," he said.

"Change it to what? There were no other outfits in the closet."

"Humor me, Ms. Gabarro. You did with dinner and I think you'll agree it turned out wonderfully."

He had a point there.

I looked up at the ceiling, off to the corner, wondering if it mattered where a looked when I spoke. "Cosmo, can I get this in periwinkle?"

"The requested alteration is a nonstandard hue. Referencing the Pantone color palette—," his voice echoed through the room.
 

Noah rolled his eyes. "Give it your best shot, Cos."

"Yes Noah."

An electrical tingle skittered across my chest like a spider on bare skin. It wrapped around my back. I froze in panic. The suit shimmered and swirled like a moving ink blot test. Light purple wavered and crested over hot pink, washing it away. It spread from my torso and down my arms and legs in expanding waves.

A moment later, I was swathed in my favorite color.

I changed my mind.

I wanted the boots.

And
I wanted the suit.

Noah sucked in a breath. His eyes burned for me.

"I misspoke. The color does have an effect."

I had only one question in my mind now.

Did the boots do the same thing?

"Cosmo, can you make my boots the same color?"

"Yes."

My boots remained black.

Why were they still black?

"Cosmo, I thought you said you could make them periwinkle?"

"I can."

I wanted to smack something. He could do it. But I didn't tell his literal, annoying self to do so. I wanted to smack him. But I wasn’t sure where to start. A wall. The table. Would anywhere do?

"Please change them to the same color."

An instant later I was enveloped in the most beautiful purple imaginable. I studied it for moment.

"Cosmo, make it a touch lighter."

“A touch? The colloquial use of the word implies—“

“Make it a tiny bit lighter.”

"Yes, Ms. Gabarro."

The purple of my suit and boots drifted up a touch. The perfect touch. The periwinkle of purple's dreams. I wanted to jump up and dance around the room like a princess. Like this was my coronation ball. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance the boots would help my normally clumsy moves more graceful. My balance seemed better walking in them.

Noah grinned and clapped. "That's one of my better creations. Getting the nano carbon fibers aligned and bending in perfect synchronicity was a terrible chore."

"I love it!"

I sounded like such a girl. I couldn't help it. I did love it. I was a girl.

"Would you mind showing it off to me?" He made a little twirl with his finger.

"You're pushing the bounds of propriety again, Mr. Sinclair."

"What? I simply want to admire my creation. It has nothing to do with you."

I almost clawed his face off. I didn't know what was worse. His asking to take a good look at my ass or then telling me he had no interest in doing so.

I was not going to give him the pleasure of seeing my discomfort. I stood up, stepped away from the table and then started a slow twirl. I made sure to give him an eyeful of my backside. We'd see who could make the other more uncomfortable.

"How do you feel about your creation, Mr. Sinclair?" The tone of my voice made it clear the suit was not the true topic.

A soft growl escaped his throat. He coughed and I heard the squish as he swallowed.

"Most pleasing. I had no idea it could be worn so well. It's a pity I'd like to tear it to shreds."

My glutes clenched at the implied force. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw his eyes smoldering like the sun. I had no doubt the seven-foot-tall man muffin could get me out of this suit in a hurry. I wanted to see if we could set a world record. Or a space record if Guinness was particular about locations.

As long as he was tearing my clothes off.

I finished the slow spin and sat back down. I'd never felt sexier in my entire life. I felt so alive. It hit me all of a sudden.

The injustice of it all.

Why now? Why did love dance at my door now? And never before?

There were two major obstacles to any imagined love I might harbor.

One, I was here to interview him, as a professional. I wasn't here to sign up to be his personal concubine.

I could almost see the uncapped pen in my hand, shaking to scrawl my signature.

And two, even if that obstacle could somehow be overcome, even if that stormy sea could somehow be safely navigated, it didn't matter.

I had less than thirty days to live. That was the concrete consensus of my team of doctors back home. Despite their hopeful babbling.

The lightness in my being that buoyed me up on the wings of a bubble burst in mid air. The tension on the surface tore apart.
 

I crumpled in my chair, despite its best efforts at perfecting my posture. This pushy gel stuff was getting irritating.

Tears burst from the limitless reservoir behind my damned eyes. I wished I could see another truth, another way. Another future. The most dangerous time to embrace hope was when everything inside you knew it was pointless.

Small streams guttered down my cheeks. I snorted as an especially wrenching bubble burst in my throat.

Noah was at my side in an instant. He knelt on the floor, his head not much lower than mine. He was crazy big.

"What hurts you, Cora?"

Every fiber in my being wanted to spill the beans. Wanted to pour my tragedy into his large hands. I didn't harbor any false hopes that he could change it. But getting it out would've been something. Just sharing it would've been a comfort.

The words choked in my throat. This wasn't why I was here. I wasn't three hundred miles above the surface to dump my troubles on the richest, sexiest recluse to ever float above the face of the earth. And I didn't want to give him leverage. Something he might find useful in manipulating his questioning.

"It's nothing," I said.

He took my trembling hands in his rock-steady ones. His skin was soft despite the obvious strength lurking underneath. He looked up into my eyes. The room faded around us.

"That's not true, Cora. I know it's not because I've been in your shoes. I know what it means to carry the burden of a death sentence."

He placed both my hands in one of his and cupped my cheek. I'd never been treated so tenderly. Certainly not by the doctors when I got the news.

"You're destined to die, Cora. Not in some far off, ambiguous way. Death stalks near and your body grows weary of the chase."

He wiped a tear from my cheek.

"You're going to die soon and not a single soul on earth can do anything about it."

I was truly a mess now. Rivers of tears and snot drew deltas on my chin and flooded the plains of my chest. Wet drops tinted the suit a slightly darker purple. My breath came in painful, racking sobs.

"Why are you telling me this?"

He lifted my chin and touched my lips.

"I'm telling you because I think I can save you."

I slapped his face. Hard. Not as hard as I wanted to though. On any normal face, it would’ve left a red print that perfectly fit my hand like the slipper to Cinderella.