“Human technology is light-years away from what we’re familiar with. Their industrial centers may not be able to produce what we need,” Shadow said. “If we can’t fix the ship, we can’t leave.”
Until now, no one had dared to voice the sobering possibility. They’d been pumped, ready to charge out and solve the problem, but Chameleon didn’t need to be a Verital to sense the dip in optimism. His body tingled as his skin changed from blue to grayish green, a reflection of his dejected mood.
Ever the leader, Tigre said, “Let’s not worry until we have to. We have a plan. We should focus on what we can do now.”
“Maybe we can contact the Intergalactic Dating Agency for assistance,” Inferno said. “We’re not here for mates, but they might know someone who can help us.”
“That’s an idea,” Tigre said.
“I’d be happy to take that on,” Inferno said.
“Go for it.”
That summed up all they could do: go for it.
Chapter Seven
Kevanne awakened to the pitter-patter of rain, but no leaks, thank YouTube. Following the video instructions, she’d patched the roof the day before. She lay in bed staring at the brown stain left by the leak. If she squinted with one eye, it kind of resembled an iguana…or maybe an alien. She rolled out of bed and donned her thick, heavy robe, shoving her feet into fuzzy scuffs. She nudged up the heat then shuffled into the kitchen and pressed start on the coffee pot.
Hugging herself against the chill, she leaned against the counter to wait. When there was enough for a cup, she filled a mug. Cupping it in both palms, she inhaled and then took a bracing drink. She sipped and grinned, recalling Cam Leon’s reaction to the coffee—and how much sugar and artificial sweetener he’d dumped into it. Where could he be from to be so unfamiliar with coffee and a basic American meal? And his accent. She’d never heard anything like it.
The shocker, though, had been seeing the billboard. He’d implied he’d been passing through and had car trouble, but he never did say where he’d been headed. Strangers didn’t usually turn up in Argent this time of year. It was too late for skiing and too early for boating and swimming. The first big event to draw out-of-towners would be the annual spring fling.
Which was coming up next week. This would be her first year as a vendor instead of an attendee. She had high hopes. The festival attracted a crowd, drawing the locals as well as quite a few out-of-towners. She suspected the latter owed to the fact not much happened at this time of year. People were bored and desperate for something to do.
Last year the TV station from Spokane, Washington had covered the event. She hoped they’d come again because she’d signed up for a booth to sell lavender products and promote the upcoming opening of Lavender Bliss Farm & Gift Shop. Speaking of which, she needed to get her swag together. Two hundred tiny mesh bags needed to be filled with potpourri. Normally she wouldn’t wait until the last minute, but the tiny nylon mesh bags had been backordered and only arrived yesterday. Filling them would be a good rainy day project.
So would caulking around the windows and applying weather stripping to the doors to keep the heat in and the cold out. Some of the interior doors had become so swollen, they didn’t close properly and needed to be planed. Knobs were loose. The bathroom and kitchen faucets needed to be replaced. The toilet ran all the time unless she jiggled the handle.
Those projects, however, didn’t have a deadline. The sachets for the spring fling did. She realized she’d been premature in advertising for a handyman. Despite a long list of interior honey-dos, the high-priority jobs were outside: plowing the field, planting lavender, painting the exterior of the gift shop before it got more weathered, and sprucing up the signage. She could live with a slow-running or leaky faucet, but she had to get the farm and gift shop up and running this year. But until the weather improved, the high-priority jobs were on hold.
Not that she expected much of a response to her flyer.
So. Sachets. She’d fill the little bags and then maybe knock out some of the items on her honey-do list herself. She could plane a door. It couldn’t be that hard to change a faucet, could it?
She topped off her cup and turned to go shower and dress.
A man’s face pressed against her kitchen window.
She screamed. Her cup flew out of her hand and shattered on the linoleum, spraying coffee everywhere. Call 9-1-1. Oh god. My phone. Where is it? Her gaze bounced around the tiny kitchen. Bedroom. Charger, by the bed. She inched toward the other room. What if the burglar tried to break in? The single-paned glass would smash so easily. The door locks were so flimsy, she’d jiggled one open when she’d locked herself out. Replace locks with deadbolts. Another item for the handyman list.
Oh god.
“Kevanne Girardi! I came for the handyman job!”
That voice!
Her gaze shot to the window. Cam Leon waved her flyer. “I want to be your handyman!” he yelled.
She glanced at the time on the coffeepot—8:11 a.m. What kind of person other than an axe murderer didn’t bother to call or ring the doorbell, and instead, showed up at someone’s kitchen window at eight in the morning?
Someone who’d never eaten a hamburger or drunk a cup of coffee?
She didn’t see an axe, only her flyer, which was getting soggy.
“I came to work! Is the job still available?” Rain poured down his handsome face.
Just because he’s handsome doesn’t mean he’s not an axe murderer.
What do I do? Call the police or talk to him?
Obviously the mayor and the town council or at least the ad agency knew him—they’d used him for the billboard. His larger-than-life persona was plastered over the highway.
Decision time. Talk to him…or not? “Go around to the front,” she yelled. “I’ll meet you on the porch.”
She waited until he ambled off then she ran to her bedroom and grabbed her phone, slipping it into her pocket, before racing to the front entry. As she reached for the baseball bat she kept behind the door, she spied her yellow rain slicker hanging on the coat rack. The bear spray! She fished the canister from the pocket, giving it a little shake. Still half full.
She flung open the door. “What are you doing here?”
“You advertised for a handyman. I came to apply. Is the job still available?”
“You’re supposed to call first,” she said.
“I didn’t know that.”
Figures.
“I don’t have a calling device…yet,” he said.
“How did you find out where I live?” For security, she’d omitted her name and mention of Lavender Bliss Farm, only listing her phone number and that the job was “near Argent.”
“Millie told me where to find you.”
What the hell! She scowled. Millie knew she was a widow living alone. What was she thinking to give out her address to a complete stranger? On the other hand, Millie had sent him here, so if Kevanne turned up dead, the police would have a lead on a suspect. Which kind of gave him some credibility…maybe? “Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”
“The button next to the door? I pushed it but nothing happened.”
She jabbed the button. Nothing. Dead as a doornail…something else for a handyman to fix.