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

Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

LAURA

I wipe the sweat from my brow. Despite the exhaustion weighing on me from unaccustomed activity, I feel happier than I’ve felt in some time. Somehow, we’ve managed to serve most of the hotel guests without setting anything on fire or poisoning anyone. A small victory, but I’ll take it.

“Last plate,” I announce, sliding a steaming platter of enchiladas towards Elana. She grins, balancing it on her arm with practiced ease.

“The guests are loving it,” she says. “Who knew a power outage could lead to such a hit?”

I allow myself a small smile. “Just don’t tell them it was cooked by a primitive human. Wouldn’t want to shatter their illusions of superior alien cuisine.”

Elana snorts. “Please. After tasting this, they’d probably beg you to be their personal chef.”

As she leaves, I turn to face Nelan. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the past hour, methodically chopping vegetables and stirring sauces without his usual commentary on my inferior cooking methods. It’s... unsettling .

“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “What’s next on the menu, oh culinary master?”

Nelan’s head snaps up, his dark eyes intense. He takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for war. “The General’s meal.”

Right. Our VIP guest. The one whose very presence has everyone on edge, even if they won’t admit it. No pressure. Just cooking for someone who could probably have us all vaporized if we serve an undercooked appetizer.

“Okay, what are we thinking? Another round of enchiladas? Maybe with some fancy alien garnish to jazz it up?”

Nelan shakes his head, his expression grave. “No, for a guest of this caliber, we need something truly exceptional. I suggest we prepare Gral’thok Shu’vari.”

I blink. “Bless you?”

That familiar look of exasperation crosses his features. I’m starting to think it’s his default expression around me.

“It’s a classic Volscian dish. Highly revered, especially among the upper echelons of society.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, already feeling out of my depth. “And what exactly is in this Gral-whatever? Please tell me it doesn’t involve anything still alive.”

“Gral’thok Shu’vari,” Nelan corrects, enunciating each syllable like he’s teaching a particularly slow child. Or me. “It’s a delicate balance of flavors and textures. The main component is seared Drek’nar tentacles, marinated in a blend of rare spices. This is accompanied by steamed Yolandi bulbs and a reduction sauce made from fermented Grokian blood fruit.”

My head spins. I recognize maybe two words in that entire description, and I’m pretty sure one of them was “and.” “Nelan, I hate to break it to you, but I have no idea how to make any of that. ”

“Which is precisely why I will be taking the lead on this dish,” he says, already moving toward the pantry with the determination of a man on a mission. “You will assist me.”

I bristle at his tone. “Excuse me? I thought we were working together here.”

Nelan pauses, turning to face me. His expression softens slightly. “We are. But this dish requires a level of expertise and cultural understanding that you simply don’t possess. Not yet, at least. It’s nothing personal, Laura. It’s just a fact.”

I want to argue, to insist that I can handle it, but the truth is that he’s right. I’m way out of my league here. At least he’s not commanding me around anymore. If anything, he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt.

With a sigh, I nod. “Fine. What do you need me to do?”

“For now, just observe. Pay close attention and learn. This dish requires absolute precision,” he says, gathering an array of ingredients I couldn’t even begin to identify. He pauses, glancing back at me. “It’s why a NutriSynth is usually used.”

I watch as Nelan works, his movements fluid and confident. It’s like watching a dance, every motion purposeful and graceful. Despite my irritation at being sidelined, I can’t help but be impressed.

“The key,” Nelan explains as he slices what I assume are the Drek’nar tentacles, “is in the preparation. The tentacles must be cut at precisely a 37-degree angle to ensure optimal texture.”

I nod, trying to look like I understand why a 36-degree angle would be catastrophic. “Right, of course. Wouldn’t want to risk a third-degree disaster. Get it? Because... angles... and degrees...” I trail off as Nelan’s unamused glare cuts through me like one of his precisely angled knives.

“This is not a joking matter, Laura,” Nelan says, his tone sharp. “The slightest imperfection could ruin the entire dish.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “No jokes. Got it.”

As Nelan continues to work, his instructions become increasingly specific and, frankly, a bit ridiculous.

“The Yolandi bulbs must be steamed for exactly 7 minutes and 42 seconds,” he insists, setting a timer with almost comical precision. “Any longer, and they become mushy. Any shorter, and they remain unpalatably firm.”

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that I doubt the General will even notice the difference of a few seconds over-cooked. After all, it’s not like it’s burnt to a crisp.

“Now,” Nelan says, handing me a strange, pulsating fruit that looks disturbingly like a beating heart, “I need you to juice this Grokian blood fruit. But be very careful. If you apply too much pressure, the juice will become bitter. Too little, and we won’t extract enough for the reduction.”

I take the fruit gingerly, half expecting it to burst in my hands. “Right. No pressure. Literally. Just gotta find that sweet spot between gentle caress and fruit murder.”

As I begin to squeeze the fruit over a bowl, Nelan hovers nearby, his eyes critically watching my every move. I feel like I’m diffusing a bomb made of produce.

“Gentler,” he instructs. “You’re being too forceful.”

I adjust my grip, trying to find that magical sweet spot between too much and too little pressure. It’s like some twisted alien version of Goldilocks. Too hard, too soft, just right... except “just right” apparently involves psychic fruit-whispering abilities I don’t possess.

“Now you’re not squeezing hard enough,” Nelan says, his voice tight with frustration. “The juice needs to flow in a steady stream, not individual drops.”

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to squeeze the fruit directly into his face. “Maybe you should do this part too, since I’m clearly incapable of juicing fruit correctly. I’ll just stand here and look pretty. It’s what I do best, after all.”

It’s what my ex used to tell me all the time, at least. That I was pretty, but useless. Nelan probably thinks the same.

Nelan shakes his head. “No, you need to learn. You can do this. I believe in you. Here, let me show you.”

He steps behind me, his chest pressing against my back as he reaches around to guide my hands. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. His body is warm, solid, and far too close for comfort. Or maybe not close enough. I’m not sure which thought terrifies me more.

What shocks me more is how he believes in me. I’m so used to being told that I can’t do something, and here this stubborn, arrogant guy actually believes. In me. It’s enough to make my brain short circuit.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear as he demonstrates the proper technique. “Firm, but not aggressive. You want to coax the juice out, not force it.”

I swallow hard, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the feeling of Nelan’s body against mine. Or any other meanings behind his words. “R-right. Coax, not force. Got it. I’ll try to seduce the juice out of the fruit. Maybe whisper sweet nothings to it.”

As soon as the fruit is fully juiced, I step away, my heart pounding. What the hell was that? I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of... whatever just happened. Maybe the fruit releases some kind of alien pheromones. Yeah, that must be it .

Nelan seems equally flustered, clearing his throat as he moves to check on the simmering sauce. “Good. That should be sufficient for the reduction.”

The next hour passes in a blur of increasingly specific instructions and mounting tension. Nelan’s anxiety seems to grow with each passing minute, his commands becoming sharper, his criticisms more frequent. It’s like watching a pressure cooker slowly building up steam, and I’m just waiting for the inevitable explosion.

“No, no, no!” he exclaims as I begin to plate the dish. “The tentacles must be arranged in a precise spiral pattern, with the thickest end at the four o’clock position!”

I freeze, the tongs hovering over the plate. “Are you serious right now? Should I break out a protractor?”

Nelan’s eyes flash. “Deadly serious. This presentation is crucial. It’s a reflection of the natural spiral patterns found in Volscian architecture. Anything else would be culturally insensitive at best, outright offensive at worst.”

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that murder is generally frowned upon, even in alien societies. This has got to be the difference between a cook and a chef, right? I make food that’s delicious, and he makes food that’s… infuriating.

“Nelan, I get that this is important to you, but don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too far? Even Rist said we should just treat the General like any other guest.”

I distinctly choose to ignore the voice that adds that this guest has the power to destroy planets.

“You don’t understand,” Nelan insists, his cybernetic hand resting firmly upon the kitchen countertop. “This isn’t just about impressing a guest. This meal could have far-reaching consequences. If we displease the General, who knows what might happen? ”

I set down the tongs, turning to face him fully. “What are you talking about? It’s just dinner, not some kind of intergalactic peace treaty.”

Nelan’s expression darkens. “You have no idea of the complexities at play here. One wrong move, one imperfect dish, and everything could come crashing down. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

As he continues to list off potential disasters stemming from improperly arranged tentacles, a chill runs down my spine. His words fade into the background as unwelcome memories surface.

Suddenly, I’m not in an alien kitchen anymore. I’m back on Earth, cowering in a dark corner of my apartment.

The air is thick with tension as I wait for the sound of keys in the lock. I know what’s coming. Another night of criticisms, of walking on eggshells, of never being good enough...

I shake my head violently, banishing the memories. No. I refuse to let that happen again. I am not that scared girl anymore. I’m a strong woman who just happens to be stuck on an alien planet, working in a hotel kitchen, and possibly developing feelings for a horned chef with OCD tendencies. Totally normal.

But even as I think it, I hear his voice in my head. “You’re defective, Laura. No one else will ever want you.”

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. I am not defective. Those words don’t define me. Not anymore. But the doubt lingers, a constant companion I can’t seem to shake.

“Enough!” I shout, my voice ringing through the kitchen. Nelan stops mid-sentence, his eyes wide with surprise.

“I’ve had it with your obsessive nitpicking,” I continue, the words pouring out of me like a broken dam. “I am not some incompetent child who needs to be micromanaged. I agreed to help you, not to be bossed around and criticized for every little thing!”

Nelan’s shock quickly morphs into anger. “I’m trying to ensure everything is perfect. To keep us safe!”

“Safe from what?” I demand. “It’s a meal, Nelan, not a matter of life and death!”

“You don’t know that!” he roars, his usually composed demeanor crumbling. “You have no idea what’s at stake here. I’m doing this to protect you!”

I laugh bitterly. “Protect me? By treating me like I’m too stupid to arrange food on a plate? Some protection.”

“Yes, protect you!” Nelan insists, stepping closer. His eyes blaze with an intensity I’ve never seen before. “Because I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. Don’t you understand? I lo-“

He cuts himself off abruptly, his mouth snapping shut. But it’s too late. The unspoken word hangs in the air between us, charged and dangerous.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, chests heaving, the air crackling with tension. I search his face, looking for... I’m not even sure what. Confirmation? Denial? Some sign that I haven’t completely lost my mind?

Because, oh god, I want him to say it. I need him to say it. All this time, I’ve been in denial about everything between us. This moment here feels like life and death.

I need this.

Without conscious thought, I’m moving. My hands fist the front of his shirt, yanking him down to my level. Our lips crash together with bruising force, all the pent-up frustration and longing pouring out in a desperate, hungry kiss.

Nelan freezes for a split second before responding with equal fervor. His arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against him as his lips move against mine. It’s not gentle or sweet. It’s raw and passionate and a little bit angry.

I nip at his lower lip, eliciting a growl that sends shivers down my spine. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I moan at the taste of him. Spicy and alien and so, so addictive.

My hands slide up to tangle in his hair, fingertips grazing the base of his horns. Nelan shudders, his grip on me tightening almost to the point of pain. But I welcome it. I want to feel every inch of him, to brand this moment into my memory. Because some part of me knows it can’t last. Good things in my life tend to have the shelf life of a ripe avocado – blink and you miss it.

Sure enough, Nelan suddenly stiffens. He pulls back, his eyes wide and conflicted. “Laura, I... we shouldn’t...”

Reality comes crashing back, and I stumble away from him, my lips tingling and my heart pounding. What the hell did I just do? What happened to never dating again? What happened to staying away from controlling and critical men?

“I’m sorry,” Nelan says, his voice rough. “That was... inappropriate. It won’t happen again.”

I want to protest, to tell him that I don’t want his apologies. That I’d very much like it to happen again, preferably without all the yelling beforehand. But the words stick in my throat.

I want it to happen again. And that terrifies me.

We stand there for a moment, the silence stretching between us like a physical barrier. Finally, Nelan clears his throat. “We should... finish the dish. The General will be expecting his meal soon.”

I nod woodenly, turning back to the half- plated meal. My hands shake slightly as I pick up the tongs and put the finishing touches on the Gral’thok Something-or-other, carefully arranging the tentacles in that stupid spiral pattern. For once he doesn’t comment, even though my shaking limbs leave tong marks in the sauce. I’m pretty sure I’ve just ruined our culinary masterpiece, but hey, at least the tentacles are at the right angle, right?

I want to say something, anything, to break this suffocating silence. But what? “Hey, sorry I jumped you back there. Want to pretend it never happened and go back to our usual bickering?” Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to cut it.

“It’s ready,” Nelan announces.

The tentacles form a perfect spiral, their deep purple hue contrasting beautifully with the pale green Yolandi bulbs. The blood fruit reduction glistens like rubies, dotting the plate in an intricate pattern.

It looks disgusting. It’s also a work of art. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or nauseated. Maybe both?

“I guess what they say is true; we eat with our eyes first,” I say softly.

Nelan’s head does a double take. “You eat with your eyes?!”

I wave a hand absently, admiring the plate like it’s some canvas at a museum. I’m almost afraid to pick it up. “Just a saying. It means it looks good enough to eat.”

Seriously dude… he’s seen us eat before. Like… I just shake my head. Some of these aliens are so literal it’s amazing they’ve even managed to survive to adulthood. I’m starting to think idioms might be Earth’s secret weapon against alien invasion.

Nelan nods stiffly. “Let’s hope it’s sufficient.”

As he moves to take the plate, our hands brush. We both jerk back as if burned, nearly upending the dish in the process.

“Sorry,” we say in unison, then lapse back into awkward silence.

This is ridiculous. We’re acting like teenagers who got caught making out behind the bleachers, not grown adults who shared one (admittedly mind-blowing) kiss. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen more mature behavior from the gelatinous blob guests.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. We need to talk about this. Clear the air before things get even more weird and complicated. As if that’s even possible at this point.

“Nelan, about what happened-” I begin.

“We should deliver the food before it gets cold,” Nelan says. “I… sorry, I didn’t mean to talk over you.”

I wave him off. He’s right. For once. Not that I’ll ever admit it out loud. My pride is already bruised enough as it is. “We’ve put so much effort into this one dish, it should be served immediately. Wouldn’t want all that tentacle-arranging to go to waste.”

“Indeed,” Nelan agrees, not meeting my eyes. “The process was... more involved than anticipated.”

The room suddenly feels stifling. Being near him feels too much. My body still thrums from our encounter, and even his scent lingers in my very lungs. I need space. I just need to regroup and figure out what’s going on and what I’m going to do and… maybe find a hole to crawl into for the next century or two.

“I’ll take it,” I offer, picking up the plate. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll trip and the General will be too busy laughing at me to notice any imperfections in the dish.

For a moment, I think he’s going to say something. His mouth opens slightly, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. I brace myself for... well, I’m not sure what. A declaration of love? Another lecture on proper tentacle placement?

But then the moment passes. Nelan gives a short nod and quickly walks through the door, leaving it swinging and me alone with my tumultuous thoughts and a kitchen full of alien ingredients.

I slump against the counter.

What a mess. How did I go from reluctant coworker to... whatever the hell this is? I’ve spent so long building walls, protecting myself from getting hurt again. And in one moment of weakness, I’ve torn them all down.

But even as I berate myself, I can’t even ignore the warmth that blooms in my chest when I think of that kiss. The way Nelan looked at me, like I was something precious and terrifying all at once. The feeling of rightness when he held me. It’s like finding a piece of home in this alien world.

I want to deny it, but I can’t ignore the truth any longer: I have feelings for Nelan. Real, complicated, probably ill-advised feelings. The kind of feelings that lead to either happily ever after or spectacular disaster. Knowing my luck, probably the latter.

And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it. I’m so screwed.

With a sigh that could power a small wind turbine, I straighten up and head for the door. Time to face the music... or in this case, the probably-not-a-food-critic-but-still-terrifying alien general. Here’s hoping our culinary masterpiece doesn’t start a political incident.

Just another day in the life of Laura, human disaster and accidental alien chef extraordinaire.