“It’s not poisoned,” Aletta scoffed, turning back to the machine to make her own cup.
Gark took his coffee and slid into a booth—the one she’d sat in the first day—and went back to his tablet, which gave Aletta unobstructed time to observe him while her own drink brewed.
Dark hair cropped short, long lashes hiding what she knew to be the most intensely purple eyes—not that she’d seen anyone with purple eyes before. And the spots.
Down one side of his face and neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt, were spots similar to a leopard she’d once seen in a zoo. The markings—because they weren’t a tattoo, that much she’d worked out—were slightly darker than his bronzed skin. Like a birthmark, but not?
It was annoying how attractive he was. If only he were a little less?—
“Have you finished staring?”
She jerked, flushing as her eyes met his. “Uhh?—“
Thankfully, the door to the mess opened with a chime, revealing Arik, the mechanic. He took one step into the room, saw Aletta, and with a wild look in his eyes—that couldn’t be terror? How could he be afraid of her?—turned on his heel and walked straight back out again.
Scratch Arik off the list for her to talk to today, then.
Aletta sighed, picking up her now full cup of coffee and sliding into the seat opposite Gark. Well, sliding wasn’t quite the right word. More like hoisted herself with a little hop onto the seat built for seven-foot-tall giants, not women who were five feet something.
He looked back down at his tablet, brows furrowed, and Aletta dismissed once more.
She took a sip of her coffee, closing her eyes and enjoying the taste of the brown liquid. No milk on this ship. When she’d asked for it, or something similar, she’d gotten confused looks. Jarden had launched into a horrified rant about stealing the milk destined for the babies of another species. She’d never thought about it like that before.
So black coffee, it was.
There was a lot she hadn’t thought about before. Aliens, for one thing. If she’d ever thought about them, it was as little green men or conspiracy theorist rambles to be dismissed and ridiculed. Not a hot, muscular, bronzed adonis with attractive scowls who could handle a woman like her as if she weighed nothing.
She watched Gark as she sipped her coffee.
“Apparently not,” Gark said as he looked up from his tablet.
“Not what?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You are still staring.”
She forced herself to keep meeting his eyes. “You said you’d help me find Dylan, but it’s been days, and you’re avoiding me. What’s going on?”
To her credit, she had tried to be patient; she really did. She’d sat on this ship for three days being nice and asking questions that nobody had answered. If you got more bees with honey than vinegar, she sure as shit had gotten nothing with honey.
“You think I’m avoiding you?” Gark placed the tablet down on the table with a click.
The intensity in his gaze was unnerving, and she looked away. “You screw up your face whenever you see me. You leave rooms as soon as you can, without being a complete asshole.”
He snorted, and she turned back to look at him. A lock of hair had flipped down over his forehead, and she longed to push it back. She pushed her mug to one side and clasped her hands together on top of the table.
“Gark, I’m grateful for your help?—”
“Grateful. You’re grateful?” He scoffed. “That’s what you feel?”
It was so hard to know what was going on behind those purple eyes. From what he’d told her, he must have spent a long time hiding his Gnaggarian side and trying to be the stoic Taurean that he thought his grandfather would admire.
Aletta knew a thing or two about trying to fit in. And it never worked out the way you hoped.
“Yes, of course. I would be dead if it weren’t for you. Of course I’m thankful.”
Gark shook his head and pushed himself out of the booth, dumping the coffee into the recycler.
“The coffee wasn’t that bad.” Aletta tried to joke, but he just stood gripping the edges of the bench, head bowed between broad shoulders.
