Inara clears her throat. “I was showing them my fire trick.”
I blink at the men I’m facing. Then I’m swinging my head to Inara. “What trick?”
Licking her lips nervously, Inara’s eyes dart up to mine before she drops her gaze to her feet. “Maybe I should show you outside.”
“Sprinklers are already raining down on the equipment,” I point out, stalking closer. The thirty-somethings edge back, just like I intended, so that I’m between them and Inara. I keep my gaze locked on her. “Might as well do whatever you’re going to do right here. Because this I gotta see.”
Inara inhales a reluctant breath—and blows fire.
“FUCK!” I shout, tripping back, right into the customers.
The customers who are good-naturedly laughing, propping me up. “Right? Cool as shit!” one crows.
Contrary to Hollywood magic, an entire building’s sprinklers do not go off if one gets tripped. They don’t activate because of smoke, but because there’s a spike in heat, so unless one gets triggered by temperatures hot enough to mimic flames, they won’t wig out.
Mine are also programmed to shut off if the temperature drops and the fire is under control. The idea behind this being that I’ll lose less shit to water damage, and hopefully very little shit gets wrecked by the initial fire.
In this bizarre case, there’s a criminally expensive fog machine and LED panel that is totally toasted, and not directly because of Inara’s breath, but because of the waterfall happening on it. Minutes after she’s done with her show of blistering hot flames, the sprinkler chokes itself like it’s supposed to, but the damage to my equipment is done. I’d want to strangle an alien, but she didn’t know, and the customers aren’t quite sure if this is scripted or not, so I back off with a tight smile and let them think this trick of her ‘cool as shit suit’ is all part of the experience.
Later, Inara finds me in my office. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and she looks it.
I wave it away. “Your room has been booked solid all night. Keep it up, and I won’t so much as chip my teeth gritting them when I sign the work order to repair the panel’s damage.” I check my watch. “Shouldn’t you be on break?”
Inara’s tail curls closer to her feet, like it’s nervous. “I was wondering if I could take you to dinner,” she says, shocking the hell out of me.
She twists a claw in her palm, like people wring their hands. “I could experience your city alone, but I thought… well, I’d like to invite you to join me, if you’d like.”
Her eyes are so hopeful. “You bet,” I find myself saying before I can really think this through. “No way in hell you’re paying, but you’re here for adventure, right? If Stacy can wriggle around one of your bookings, you and I will hit Revival Food Hall.”
Hands down, it’s the place to go if you want a taste of the best cuisine in the area.
Since it’s past peak hours, there’s a good chance the lines wouldn’t have been killer—but we’ll never know, because we didn’t make it there. Instead, Inara excitedly tries every food vendor in a four-block radius of Escape Rooms HQ, even the questionable-looking ones. If we see a truck or a stand, she introduces herself and asks them what they’d recommend as their best and brightest dish. She’s effervescent and genuine and everything is new to her.
She’s really friggin’ cute to watch.
Back in the employee parking lot, at the picnic table designated for smokers (of which, our business has none), Inara slides herself on the bench like a lady, peels open the wrapper of her pink-in-the-middle hamburger she took a bite of (and grimaced over), and she lights the thing on fire.
The bread turns to ashes, the table burns black, and her beef smells amazing—like the grilled well-done stuff.
As I stare at her in stunned silence, she uses her claws to raise her patty, and begins to bite into it daintily.
When her break is over and she heads back to her escape room (which is booked solid for the rest of the night, thanks to more call-ins cashing in their discount cards from today), I go back to work. I drop off a cookie with Stacy because she blossoms under surprises, especially if her surprises come with chocolate chips, and I bring Jason and Sal burgers—and warn them to nuke them good since they’re probably as rare as Inara’s was.
When we close up for the night, I don’t take Inara right to the car. Instead, we walk the city for over an hour, just letting her see the sights and enjoy the lights before heading back to the parking lot where we can hop in my car and head for my apartment.
CHAPTER 13
I’m weirdly wound up when we’re standing in my frunchroom.
(Frunchroom: Chicagoan for ‘front room,’ the place you hang out with family, friends, and loved ones. A living room, basically.)
Could be all those looks Inara kept sliding my way on the drive back here. In fact, I’m almost positive that’s why I’m keyed up and ready to climb the walls, despite getting to stretch my legs. “Quit looking at my fish like that,” I warn, and she turns away from them with a guilty fanged smile.
Tomorrow, so help me, I’m buying her Goldfish crackers. And maybe like a whole salmon. “Are you hungry again?”
“No,” she replies, looking like she means it.
Maybe my fish just fascinate her in dangerous ways. Best to keep her occupied and her attention on other things. “I’m going to hit the treadmill. Want to join me?”
She brightens at my offer and accepts, and we end up jogging together for a solid twenty minutes, her tail swishing behind her in a lazy, attractive wave, despite our speed.
Our cool down is quiet. So is our walk back to my apartment.
We take turns hitting the shower for a good rinse, and Inara lets me go first. I’m out in track sweats and a respectable T-shirt, remaking my bed on the couch when she exits the washroom wearing a coral-colored cami and ruffled boyshorts the color of ripe peaches.
As it happens, the otherworldly boyshorts display the upper curves of her round-as-peaches cheeks.
I don’t even want to know what her actual peach looks like. I mean, I do, but INAPPROPRIATE MATT—I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS.
“The—Inara,” I wheeze. The fuck you’re wearing those to bed! “Woman, put some fucking clothes on,” I squeak. The loss of my natural masculine voice doesn’t slow me down. Humiliation has no place here: I’m saving us both. I march into my room, rip open my top dresser drawer, and yank out a pair of serviceable black boxers. “Here.” I shove them at her.
“What about my tail?” she asks.
Dammit. “Well, you’ve gotta cover up with something.”
Her idea of a nightshirt is another cami, a lace one this time. Pristine white, by the way. Hot as sin, for the record. And my brain and my dick do not care that she’s an alien. My dick in particular is a problem, because neither does he care about ethics—she works for me, and that still works fine for him.
But it’s not like I can blame my cock. She’s sexy as fuck. She also smells edible, which is confusing because I have nothing but men’s shampoo in my shower. She should smell like chemically mimicked evergreen trees. And maybe like sandalwood.