Page 15 of Mated to the Grumpy Alien

I feel like I should know them. That if I stopped trying so hard, I already do know them. Like their meaning is right on the edge of my consciousness, waiting to slip into my vocabulary when I’m not looking.

Which might sound crazy, but no crazier than anything else that’s happened in the past four days.

Either way, he’s right. He doesn’t know my name and he can’t keep calling me bella shook, because every time he says it in that delicious, deep rumble of a voice, I feel like my panties might fall right off. Or they would if I knew where they were.

Turning to face him fully, I straighten the hem of my sweater. “I’m Cressida Jones. I teach high school art history. I’m the last twenty-six-year-old virgin in America. I’m an orphan, because my mom died of complications from MS over a year ago and my sperm donor disappeared when I was eight. I have more debt than I should, and I love dairy and hate sushi. And the most interesting thing about me is the bumper stickers on my ancient, wheel-chair accessible Honda Odyssey, which I really should sell, but I just can’t bring myself to do it because it’s my last tie to my mom. So basically, I am the most boring person ever.”

I don’t know what I expect when I finish my tirade. Maybe for him to turn tail and run? The last time I even bothered going on a first date, which was years ago, the dude asked me about myself and then started texting his buddy before I even got to the name of my college.

Because modern American men suck.

But Hercules, aka Irick of Handbags (apparently), is not a modern American man. As if I couldn’t guess that from his gleaming gold muscles.

Because my rant doesn’t scare him off. He doesn’t lose interest. He doesn’t even blanch at the mention of my debt or my wheel-chair van, both of which are boner-killers for most guys. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know what either of those things are. I'm still unsure how this language implant thing works, but I’m still giving him bonus points for it.

Instead, he’s still watching me like I’m the most fascinating woman he’s ever met. It’s a bit disconcerting for someone who spends most of her life flying under the radar.

I clap my hands together, nervously. “So, now you know everything there is to know about me.”

His lips twist in a smirk. “Be’lahshuk, I could listen to you talk for hours or even years and still not know enough about you.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. Sure.” Because of course he has a smooth line like that. And can deliver it without sounding like douche canoe. “But for real, can you just point me to the bathroom. Because I can’t even remember the last time I peed.”

That smirk turns into a chuckle. “Of course, Shuka. I am sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. How is he making taking me to the bathroom seem romantic?

He gestures me towards an open doorway. “The facilities you seek are through here.”

He leads me from the cave through a stone passageway. Like the cave, the ceiling itself seems to glow with some ambient light I can’t see the source of. I can’t tell if the stone is glowing or if it’s reflecting light from somewhere else.

At some point, the passageway splits. He tells me that the right-hand path leads to the outside, back towards the village. He says this matter of factly, like he’s not at all worried about me leaving or running away.

I guess he isn’t, since, as I’ve already admitted to him, I’m not interested in returning to the village of brutes and witch burnings. At least, not without my own personal Hercules by my side.

A few yards down the left-hand branch, the passage widens abruptly. I find myself standing in the open night air on a stone patio overlooking a picturesque garden. The moon is huge on the horizon and gives just enough light that I can make out plants and trees. I can hear the babble of a brook nearby.

I keep myself from gasping at the beauty of it all, but just barely.

“This bathroom you seek, do you need to bathe or to relieve yourself?”

I nearly roll my eyes again, because why does everything he say sound so much fancier? I guess the phrase I need to pee didn’t translate.

“I need to relieve myself.”

“This way, then,” he says gesturing me to the right. He leads me across the patio and down several steps to a small building, nestled against the side of the cliff. The sound of running water is louder here.

He gestures to the stream. “This stream runs through the garden. At the other end, there is a pool for bathing where the water is warm. Here where the water returns to the ground, is the facility you require.”

He presses a panel on the otherwise smooth black surface and a door slides open.

A light comes on as I step inside and, sure enough, there is a toilet. Not exactly like a toilet from back home, but close enough that it’ll do.

By this point, I have to pee so badly I don’t even bother figuring out how to close the door before I pull down my pants and squat.

Should I question the existence of a futuristic porta potty in the garden of Eden? Possibly. But frankly, right now, I’m just so relieved that I don’t have to squat behind a bush like I did when I was hiking across the wilderness. There’s even something like toilet paper—thank you, sweet Jesus!

When I’m done, I turned to look for some sort of lever to flush the toilet, only to realize the water from the stream passes beneath the building, eliminating the need for additional plumbing.