Chosen Alien Bride (Sci Fi Alien Romance)

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Chosen Alien Bride

Meg Ripley

Copyright © 2015 by Meg Ripley

www.redlilypublishing.com

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without written permission from the authors, with the exception of brief quoted passages left in an online review. This book is a fictional story. All characters, names, and situations are of the authors’ creation. Any resemblances to actual situations or to persons who are alive or dead are purely coincidental.

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This book is intended for readers age 18 and over. It contains mature situations and language that may be objectionable to some readers.

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“Didn't your mother ever teach you it's not polite to touch things without permission?” Charlotte chastised the man whose drink had nearly landed in his lap. It would've served him right, too, given that the precariously perched drink nearly toppled from her tray when he tried to squeeze Charlotte's ass as she leaned over to place the drinks on the table. She glared down at the offender, who returned a look of semi-inebriated chagrin.

Ugh, I already feel like I need a shower
, she thought.

She was supposed to be off this evening, but she'd naively accepted the shift for a coworker who claimed she had an important family function.

“Family function, my ass,” Charlotte muttered to herself. By now, she was quite certain that Alison had simply been aware of the guests who would be occupying the sports bar tonight: a bachelor party! If they wanted to spend the evening in a drunken stupor, grabbing at every woman within arms' reach, then Charlotte had no problem with that. But, they really should have moved their party to a more fitting venue—like a strip club or a brothel! But maybe that was the problem; perhaps the groom had blown all his money on the wedding and had none left to enjoy his last night of single-hood with a bang. Charlotte smiled at the pun.

If he'd only budgeted more wisely, the table full of overgrown little boys could be enjoying all the tits and asses they could afford and Charlotte, who had opted for a job where her clothes remained on, could finish out her evening without fingerprints covering every inch of her uniform. It didn't help that the owner's idea of a “uniform” was a skirt that resembled something a school girl would wear, along with a tight, button-up, white blouse.
Yeah, like those weren't designed to provide the bar's patrons with walking fantasies
, she thought dryly.

Charlotte moved on from the table, grateful that the night was nearly over. “Just one more hour and I'm out of here,” she comforted herself. She moved around the room, checking to see if customers needed refills or another order of wings, and then headed back to the kitchen to hand over two more orders for the evening. She could survey the bar from her position just outside the kitchen. It was the part of her job that she loved; watching people come and go, seeing the play of expression on their faces, guessing why they're celebrating or drowning their sorrows in drink. While she was in the crowd, she couldn't see what was going on around her, but from here, it was the ultimate improv—reality TV at its best. It wasn't that she was a nosy person—it wasn't any of her business what was really going on in her customers' conversations—Charlotte was just fascinated with people.

She'd grown up as an only child, with two professional parents who spent a great deal of their time working. When she was young, it wasn't uncommon for Charlotte to wind up eating dinner with the babysitter, and then once she was old enough to care for herself, eating entirely alone. She used to eat in front of the television; not to keep up with her favorite sitcom or drama, but to watch the news. It made her feel better to know that the people on the television were actually out there somewhere. When her parents passed away in a plane crash just after her seventeenth birthday, Charlotte waited for something to be different. They had gone away for an anniversary vacation and on the day they were expected home, they never arrived. It wasn't until Charlotte was dining that evening in front of the television that she saw coverage of the crash on the news.

Day after day, she continued with her usual routine. She didn't miss her mother tucking her in at night—her mom never did that. She didn't miss tossing a ball around with her dad—he didn't have time for that. In the days, weeks and months following her parents' deaths, she made her own food, stayed on top of her own homework and tucked herself in at night—just like she always had.

Charlotte shook her head to dispel the sad reverie, and as her mind cleared, she noticed a new figure sitting in the darkened area of the bar. It wasn't odd to have new customers, and he probably wouldn't have caught her attention if he hadn't been staring back at her with a piercing gaze that she swore he was using to try to see into her soul.

She was accustomed to her fair share of ogling; at five foot, eight inches with a model's figure, attention from men, and even a few women, was an everyday occurrence. Her flaxen hair shimmered even in the poor lighting of the bar, and her big, stormy blue eyes captured almost as much attention as her long, slender legs and full breasts.

Even when she met the stranger's gaze, he didn't turn away, and the combination of a thrill and a chill ran down her spine. She knew she should be wary of the stranger; blatant attention like that was often a warning sign that the creep might be waiting outside after work. But for some inexplicable reason, she wasn't scared. And then, seemingly of their own volition, her legs began to propel her forward, moving her slowly toward the table where the stranger sat, still staring. She didn't know why she couldn't help herself—a tiny warning bell should have been going off in her head by now. But, she just kept moving until she stood directly in front of him.

“Hi there. Is there anything I can get for you this evening?” At least as a waitress, even if the guy turned out to be just another creep, her approach wouldn't strike him as odd or inviting. She was just doing her job.

“I'm fine for now. Thank you, Charlotte,” he replied politely, still staring at her intently. She wondered how he knew her name, and then figured he read it on her name tag. She wasn't accustomed to the patrons here being sober enough to bother with reading a name tag. But, as she looked down at her chest, following her mind's train of thought, she froze—she must have forgotten to put her name tag on before her shift started.

“How do you know my name?” she queried, a hint of panic in the tone of her voice.

“I know a great deal about you, Charlotte. And I'd like to know more,” he responded. The accent in his voice threw her off; she couldn't place it from any country she'd heard of.

“I bet you would,” she muttered aloud, beginning to think her “common creep” theory had been correct.

“No. Not in that way, though you are incredibly beautiful,” he said gently. “I mean, I would like the opportunity to learn about who you are,” he clarified, as if that should put her discomfort at ease.

He sounded 100 percent genuine, which made the situation all the more perplexing. Charlotte didn't know what to make of this stranger. By the way he spoke, how he held himself upright and looked clearly at her, she had a difficult time believing he was drunk.

“Yes, well, maybe I'll see you around here sometime.” She didn't know what else to say, and so a casual, uncommitted response seemed most appropriate. It was either that or, “You're creeping me out and I'd appreciate it if you'd leave,” she thought.

“I do not wish to leave. If you'd just join me for a drink, I am sure you'll come to see I am not here to 'creep' you out,” he explained.

The fact that he seemed to be reading her thoughts was disturbing Charlotte even more, and yet she didn't immediately tell him no. What was wrong with her?

“I'm in the middle of work, I'm afraid,” she told him honestly.

“I'm sure no one will mind if you took a break. I've seen you working all evening, and you haven't stopped even once.”

All of a sudden, “Charlotte!” her boss, Michael, shouted to her from across the room.

“Great. I'm in trouble already and I didn't even take the damn break,” she though exasperatedly.

“Go ahead and take five. We've got the floor covered for now,” Michael continued, and Charlotte's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Michael wasn't the type of boss who was...well,
nice
.

Uncomfortably she nodded her head and sat down at the stranger's table, though she wasn't entirely sure when she was the one who had commanded her legs to lower her to the seat.

Her boss, her body with a mind of its own tonight, and the potentially-telepathic stranger sitting across from her; Charlotte was beginning to wonder if she was dreaming—or living in an episode of the X-Files.

“What's going on?” she queried, certain at the least that something wasn't right here. As she spoke, she looked up at the stranger.

Even sitting she could tell that he would stand nearly a foot taller than her. She looked closer; something wasn’t quite right about his features. The stranger had ridges on his forehead and markings along his hairline down to his neck. She couldn't make them out, but they seemed to shimmer iridescent. He had incredibly defined, chiseled cheekbones, and a hard jawline. His eyes were gently slanted and he had incredibly long lashes for a man. His dark hair was long, too, falling just below his shoulders, and she could just barely see the tops of his ears peeking out, suggesting they angled away from his head—sort of like Will Smith's ears, she thought wryly.

He didn't look like any man she'd ever seen before; every one of his features was exaggerated; some men might have a strong jaw or prominent cheekbones, or eyes that really stood out, but never a combination of all these things. But, he was beautiful—a solitary masterpiece unlike any other.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” she asked, confused. When he didn't respond but looked at her knowingly, “You heard that?!? But, how is that possible?”

“Why would you suppose that such things are not possible?” he queried back to her. But, as intelligent as Charlotte was, she couldn't find a logical argument.

And then he spoke again, an edge of frustration in his voice. “I wish I had time to do this another way—to woo you tenderly, I would like that very much—but I’ve been gone too long. It has taken me so long, and while I know you cannot possibly understand, I have come here for a reason, Charlotte. And it turns out, that reason is
you
. And I’m more glad than you can possibly imagine,” he explained cryptically.

“I don't understand,” Charlotte replied, completely at a loss. She had no idea what to make of the stranger's ramblings. This had to be the weirdest conversation she'd ever had. Weirder still was the fact that she was still sitting there. She really should have taken a hike when the guy started repeating her thoughts.

“And I see that all I'm doing is confusing you right now. I will be back,” he assured her before standing, settling up his bill and strolling out of the sports bar. Charlotte was left to stare after him, wondering if perhaps she'd just imagined the exchange between them. She remained still for a moment after he'd left before sweeping up the money on the table to cover the stranger's bill.

She shook her head, trying to clear it of the confusion from her bizarre conversation with the stranger. It was a difficult task, but her five minutes was up and it was time to get back to work. Fortunately, the rest of the night passed quickly and much less disturbing than she had expected. Strangely, the immature grabbers at the bachelor party table had calmed down immensely since her last trip to their table. She stopped by to refill glasses two more times during the evening and her entire body remained untouched the entire time. “Jeez, I gotta find out what's ended up in their drinks and stash some for the next raucous group of males,” Charlotte thought to herself.

She swept the floors and washed down the tables after the last customer cleared out of the bar and then headed out quickly, never terribly enthusiastic about the long walk home after dark. She looked around for the stranger that had confused her earlier, but he was nowhere to be found. So, she started out down the sidewalk, moving quickly while her low heels kept a staccato beat to spur her onward.