Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef (At The Alien Hotel #3)

Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

NELAN

“ L et’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 a green 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 me with 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? ”

“I…” My breath catches as I gape at her. “It’s not that you are primitive, it’s -“

“Relax. I’m just messing with you,” Laura says, bumping her hip against mine as she reaches for a knife. The casual contact sends a jolt through me, and I have to resist the urge to lean into her touch. I want nothing more than to be close to her, but every time I get near… she becomes defensive and even angry. Even when her scent calls to me. It’s like a cosmic joke – I’m finally close to someone I want, and I’m about as welcome as a Zorgax at a vegetarian buffet.

I swallow the pain. It doesn’t take a genius to realize she’s attracted to me, but rejecting me because I’m… I look down at my hand, hating the shine of the metal. Who could ever love someone with a past like mine? Even my thoughts towards her are messed up - simultaneously pushing her away while wanting to keep her close.

I watch as Laura begins chopping ingredients with practiced ease, her knife moving in swift, sure strokes.

“You actually like this,” I say, the words tumbling from my mouth before I can stop them. “Cooking, that is.”

Laura grins, her whole face lighting up in the dark. “I do.”

This whole time I’ve hated her in my kitchen, thinking she was here out of some misplaced sense of duty... Maybe all this time, I’ve been wrong. Just maybe from where Laura hails it’s acceptable for females to cook their own meals?

On my own home planet, Latium, many males used hosting grand parties focused around food as proof they were well off. They either cooked the food themselves, or saw that the event was catered by a professional chef. Social status dictated who could and who couldn’t go to these parties. I’d only ever attended them from the kitchens, alone. But at least I was in demand. It’s not like I wanted to be part of the events, to be included and share those moments with someone…

“I’ve made this meal a thousand times. My abuela taught me when I was just a kid,” she tells me, oblivious to the dark direction of my thoughts.

“Your... abudabala?” I ask, trying to focus on the moment instead. If she won’t have me as her mate, then at least I can be a good friend to her. I can still look out for her. Even if it hurts every moment she’s in my sight… and out of it. I’m practically a masochist at this point.

“My grandmother,” Laura explains, her expression softening with nostalgia. “She was an amazing cook. Used to make huge feasts for our entire extended family, all by herself too!”

“Alone?” I ask, shocked. A female forced to cook... that’s just unheard of. It’s a concept that’s hard to relate to.

“That must have been quite the undertaking,” I say cautiously, hoping she will share more. It doesn’t take much for us to bicker. The tension between us is simmering all the time. It’s honestly rare for us to just talk like this. Even more rare to learn something about her. I feel like I’m navigating a minefield, except the mines are filled with sarcasm and eye-rolls instead of explosives.

Laura shrugs, but I catch the hint of pride in her voice. “It was a lot of work, but I think she loved it. I certainly loved visiting her.”

“And you? Do you want to work? To cook?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

She nods, a smile playing at her lips. “There’s something special about bringing people together with food, you know?”

I nod. Almost all Volscian males learn how to cook. I’d taken the course simply because my education dictated it… and fallen in love with creating something that could have such a powerful impact upon a person’s mood.

“A good meal can improve anyone’s day. Worth its weight in sorium ore,” I say, thinking of the mineral that had led to numerous intergalactic wars. Though I’d argue a perfectly seasoned roast could probably broker peace faster than any diplomat.

Laura glances up, surprise evident in her eyes. Is it because I’ve agreed with her for once?

For a moment, I consider deflecting, falling back on my usual air of aloof superiority. Anything to stop myself from falling even more in love with this small human female. But something in Laura’s open, earnest expression makes me want to share. I’ve wanted to share with her for a while now, I admit to myself. I’ve just been too scared to.

“My sire was head chef for the royal family,” I explain, my flesh hand absently tracing the seam where metal meets skin on my cybernetic arm. “I spent much of my youth in the kitchens, learning at his side. Just like you learned from your abadaba.”

“Abuela,” she gently corrects, again.

The word is foreign, even with our translators. I’m not sure I can even pronounce it in the same way she does. It irks me that I can’t be as perfect as she is, as she deserves.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. There’s something in her gaze – admiration, yes, but also a warmth that makes my breath catch in my throat. The colors of her eyes are so vivid. A brown, filled with flecks of gold. I could look at them all day long… And if her scent is anything to go by, she likes what she sees too.

It’d be so easy to lean in…

My metal hand rests on the table between us with a clank as I lean towards her.

Laura turns abruptly and clears her throat, breaking the spell.

All of a sudden, I feel like I’m losing her. She just softened up to me and…

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

Laura turns to me, her eyes wide as she stares at me in disbelief. I don’t blame her. I’ve never apologized to anyone in my life. Ever. She’s the first. Probably the only.

“All this time I thought you were working because you felt you had to,” I explain. “Not because it was something you wanted to do. I just… I didn’t realize you wanted to be here. I will do my best to make the kitchen more suitable for you in the future.”

It goes against every instinct to suggest that, but still… I want her here with me. If this is where she wants to be, I’m not going to deny her that. Even if it means my kitchen will never know peace again.

Laura licks her lips as she studies me. I can almost imagine her mind working overtime to determine my true motives. It makes me wonder what she’s been through to distrust others, especially men, so easily. It hasn’t escaped my notice that she shies away from most. It was one of the only reasons I initially welcomed her into my kitchens, so that she would have a safe retreat. Only she never left.

“Why don’t you show me some of those royal chef skills then?” she proposes, giving me a timid smile. “You can chop the rest of these vegetables for me.”

I grin at her. It’s not an outright acceptance of my apology, of how I’ve been so blunt with her in the past… but it’s a start. I will make it up to her. Even if I have to chop every vegetable in the galaxy .

“And what exactly do you propose we do with these... vegetables once they’re mutilated?” I ask, forcing myself to inject some humor into the situation. Anything but laugh at myself for my foolish hopes.

I take the knife in hand and flex my metal fingers, the servos whirring softly. For a moment, I’m back in that dungeon, the phantom pain of my lost limb screaming through me-

“Ha!” Laura exclaims, catching my full attention. She rolls her eyes, but I catch the smile on her lips before she hides it. Her softness binds me in place, unable to escape. I can’t run, not anymore, because that would be leaving her behind. For this little female, I’d face an entire army; and I’m not a skilled fighter. Not unless dicing fruit counts. Though I do make a mean fruit salad – it’s to die for. Literally, if you’re allergic to citrus.

“Mutilated,” she giggles, reminding me of the joke I just made. Around her, my thoughts are permanently scattered. A kaleidoscope of emotions.

“Very well,” I say with more bravado than I feel. It’s been years since I’ve cooked anything like this. “Prepare to be amazed.”

I position myself at the cutting board, acutely aware of Laura’s eyes on me. The knife feels strange in my grasp – familiar, yet foreign. For a moment, I’m tempted to fumble deliberately, to play up my rusty skills for Laura’s amusement. It wouldn’t take much, not with my hand the way it is.

But as I make the first cut, muscle memory takes over. The rhythmic thunk of the blade against the board becomes almost meditative. I fall into the familiar patterns – slice, turn, chop – my cybernetic hand working in perfect sync with my flesh one. The very sensation takes me back. Ever since I’ve gotten my arm, it’s felt just as foreign as this knife. Yet in this moment… The rhythmic thunk of the knife against the board becomes almost... soothing. Who knew vegetable mutilation could be so therapeutic?

“Nelan?” Laura’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s looking at me with concern, and I realize I’ve been standing there, frozen, for who knows how long. “You okay?”

I clear my throat, pushing away the memories. “Fine. Just... recalibrating.” Ah yes, because nothing says “I’m okay” like comparing yourself to a malfunctioning computer.

She doesn’t look convinced, but mercifully doesn’t press the issue. She’s one of the few people that never brings up the topic of my arm, and the painful memories, in conversation.

“You’re doing a great job,” she tells me with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. “You’re a pro!”

I stand a little taller at her praise, simultaneously feeling foolish acting like a youngling. Such simple compliments should not affect me. Not like this. Of course, she doesn’t notice as she wraps the cut produce in dough and places them into a pan. I’m half expecting them to burst into flames at any moment, given her track record.

“I am a pro,” I tell her. I was, after all, head chef at the palace. Once. Even that thought brings back bitter memories. “I suppose even primitive techniques can be mastered with sufficient skill.”

Laura elbows me gently. “Oh please. You’re enjoying this and you know it.”

Before I can formulate a suitably cutting response, the kitchen door swings open. We both turn to see Prince Rist strolling in, his usual air of casual authority somewhat intensified by the crease between his brows. He runs a hand over one of his horns, the one sign of his stress.

“How long until the food is ready?” he asks, his eyes darting between Laura and me. “The guests will need to be served, sooner rather than later.”

“We’re not far off serving, I think,” I report, straightening to attention out of habit. While I’ve been making conversation, Laura’s been throwing things into the fry pan. Surprisingly, the smell is good. Not at all like the disaster I was preparing myself for. Perhaps miracles do happen.

Thankfully Laura nods in agreement.

“Though I still maintain that this entire endeavor is ill-advised,” I remark, nerves still gripping me.

Rist nods absently, his gaze fixed on the produce scattered before us.

“Has Sutek told you that those slime cubes love fresh meat?” he asks, shifting slightly from foot to foot. I scowl at him and his odd behavior. “He said that if they don’t eat soon, they might approach the staff to find their own meals.”

“Isn’t that how most people order food?” Laura asks. She tilts her head as she studies the prince, confusion written across her brow. It still boggles my mind how the human females address him so casually, not even using his title.

“They will eat the staff,” I tell her bluntly, explaining the situation.

Her expression of horror matches that of Rist’s.

“It’s true?” Rist asks, utterly aghast.

I shrug. “Unlikely. They have to be really starving for them to hunt.”

“One of them smelled what you’re cooking, and said so!” Rist declares, raising his voice. I’ve never seen him so disgruntled before.

“Relax!” Laura laughs, once again not fazed at all by the chaos around us. “We are about to serve. I’m sure the slimes will love the meal. And the General.”

Her optimism is either admirable or completely delusional. I’m fearfully leaning towards the latter.

At the mention of our esteemed guest, I feel my shoulders tense. The irrational fear that’s been gnawing at me since his arrival surges to the forefront of my mind. What if he recognizes me? What if he’s here to drag me back to the capital?

I don’t even know if it’s him… It could be another famous General of the Royal Army…

Rist breathes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping. “The General’s presence has us all on edge. Even the guests. But remember, we’re simply providing hospitality to a guest. Nothing more. Just keep telling yourself that,” he says as he looks me in the eye, as if he believes his own words.

I nod stiffly. After all, if the General were truly here for nefarious purposes, why bring only a small contingent? And surely he wouldn’t have announced his presence so openly.

As Rist leaves to attend to other matters, I turn back to find Laura studying me intently.

“What?” I ask, perhaps more sharply than intended.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. You just looked... scared for a second there.”

I bristle at the observation. “Nonsense. I was merely concerned about the potential diplomatic ramifications of serving subpar cuisine to a high-ranking official.”

Laura’ s expression softens. “Nelan, it’s okay to be nervous. I’m pretty freaked out myself. I mean, I’m just a human from Earth. What do I know about impressing aliens?”

Her admission of vulnerability catches me off guard. I’m used to Laura being all snark and determination. This glimpse of her softer side stirs something protective in me.

“You are impressive,” I tell her softly.

Laura’s eyes widen in surprise, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Was that actually a compliment, Nelan? Should I check if you’re running a fever?”

I roll my eyes, but can’t quite suppress an answering smile. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m merely acknowledging that your particular brand of chaos might work in our favor this once.”

Laura grins triumphantly. “Ha! I knew I’d get you to admit it eventually.”

“I still maintain that the NutriSynth is far more efficient and reliable for day-to-day meal preparation.”

“Sure, sure,” Laura says, waving a hand dismissively. “But admit it – you’re having fun cooking the old-fashioned way.”

I’m about to deny it on principle when I realize... she’s right. Despite the challenges and imperfections, there’s something deeply satisfying about creating a meal with my own hands. The textures, the aromas, the subtle adjustments that can elevate a dish from good to extraordinary – it’s a form of artistry I’d almost forgotten.

“I suppose,” I concede grudgingly, “there is a certain... appeal to this method.”

As we put the finishing touches on our meal, I find myself stealing glances at Laura. The way her eyes light up as she focuses on the dish before her, the little dance she does when a flavor combination works perfectly – it’s all oddly endearing. I still want her to get everything she wants in life… but I’m coming to realize that it should be what she wants, not what I expect her to do.

But then I catch sight of my cybernetic hand, the metal gleaming under the kitchen lights, and reality comes crashing back. What could someone like her possibly see in a broken, disgraced chef like me? What if rather than protecting her, I bring her trouble?