Love Galaxy (The Intergalactic Dating Show #1)

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Be blown away by whirlwind romance. A new season of LOVE GALAXY is coming soon.

Download the Human language update to your translator today.

Herewegoagain replied: I cannot wait?!

RussNnh replied: YEEP!

Anonymous replied: What the fek are Humans?

torkstenlover8572583 replied: Who the fek cares? Is anyone seriously still watching this scudding show?

RussNnh replied: YES. OBVIOUSLY.

Briar

M y interview isn’t conducted until the next day, which means I’m dressed in this same stupid cocktail gown two days running. Overnight I was stored (yes, stored is the appropriate word for what happens to me when I’m not needed on set) in a room aboard the spaceship that’s barely larger than a closet. The closet-turned-storage room contains a hammock and a water bottle with my name printed on it, with absolutely nobody to talk to.

I know for a fact Mr. Smith is working hard to keep me separate from the other contestants. What sucks most is not being able to argue against his directive. He knows we’re reliant on him, and he’s using his power to assure our obedience.

Now, still on his spaceship, I’m seated in a vomit-inducing pink heart-shaped chair in a room that’s been designed to look like an office had a kid with a bedroom. The LOVE GALAXY logo decorates the walls in a repeating pattern, and sitting opposite me in an identical heart-shaped chair is mean girl Chloe. Mr. Smith hovers in the background, checking camera angles and shouting at me to start again when I stumble over my words in answer to Chloe’s pretty basic questions. She’s mainly asking me about what sorts of qualities I’m searching for in a romantic partner and my first impressions of the other participants.

I don’t give my answers much consideration. I certainly don’t admit to my intense feeling of relief when I’d walked down those kitchen stairs and saw Sorin leaning against the back wall with all four of his arms crossed.

And when he’d strode straight over the kitchen table to stop Mr. Smith from touching me—chef’s kiss! Perfection.

I hurry from the interview room the second Mr. Smith calls cut, but the other women aren’t in sight. There’s only Sorin, taking up most of the corridor and looking adorably awkward, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with all four of his arms in such a confined space.

Before I can say anything, he’s directed to take the seat I’ve just vacated, and the door’s shut firmly, with me on the outside.

Well, fuck them too , I think, and press my ear to the cold metal, but the door is soundproof. Angry, I stalk along the corridor, searching the other rooms in the ship for signs of Lydia and Harlee and generally attempting to make a nuisance of myself.

Only some of the doors open when I pass. On those that remain closed I can’t find a handle or any other way to open them. Maybe that’s what Mr. Smith meant by a biogenetic lock.

In the few rooms I can access, I don’t find anyone. The walk-in-closet is empty but for the racks of our clothes. Even the creepy room I first woke up in with the vertical pallets is devoid of life. The fine hair along the backs of my arms rise, but I make myself step into the pallet room long enough to check the touch screens on the off chance I can get some more information—about this planet, about the ship, about how to get home. But the writing is still undecipherable. Apparently my translator only works for spoken words, not written.

In the end, I take advantage of my unchaperoned state and change out of my cocktail dress into… I can’t find my jeans anywhere, not even when I search the entire closet twice over. Instead, I pick my way through clothes that look like they were selected by someone who’s studied Human fashion but who’s never visited Earth. They’re more like costumes than clothes.

Finally, I find a short, loose-fitting peasant dress with puffed sleeves, like something you’d wear to a Renaissance Faire. I partner it with bell-bottom pants in a blindingly bright seventies’ Flower Power print and a pair of grass green sneakers, straight out of their box. Nothing matches, and I survey my reflection in the full-length mirror with satisfaction.

Sure, I would’ve tried harder with my appearance were I on a reality dating show on good ol’ Earth, even one set in the middle of a desert and a windstorm. But here, on an alien planet, for the show I was tricked into signing up for, fuck that. It’s comfort over fashion, baby! This girl ain’t stupid.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Chloe rolls her eyes when she sees me, which, unbeknownst to her, is the exact reaction I was hoping for. I brush past her to Sorin, who’s exiting the interview room.

“How’d it go?”

He rubs at the back of his neck, his scales tinged more blue than green, a sign I’m coming to realize means he’s embarrassed. I can’t imagine talking to a camera is his favorite way to spend a morning, not when he doesn’t appear to be all that talkative when there aren’t cameras around.

“Terribly,” Chloe answers before Sorin has even opened his mouth.

If she thinks she can hurt my feelings, she’s dead wrong. I’ve got thick skin. But Sorin’s scales are turning bluer, especially at his neck and his temples, like he’s blushing. It’s adorable, considering he’s nearly three feet taller than Chloe and probably three times as heavy. He’s got to duck his head slightly so his horns don’t scrape against the ceiling.

Like I said, Chloe can’t hurt my feelings. And there’s no way I’m letting her get away with hurting Sorin’s. I turn to face her. “Now see here, you b?—”

“Briar.” Mr. Smith appears in the doorway of the interview room. He either doesn’t notice he’s interrupting a fight, or he doesn’t give a crap. I’m betting it’s the latter. “Pack a bag. I’ve decided you’re going with Sorin to live in his house. I’ve got cameras set up there already. Try to be likeable. Nobody wants to watch a smartass fall in love.”

He’s sending me away? He’s that desperate to keep me from colluding with the others? “I’m not?—”

“Chloe.” He talks straight over the top of me. “Make sure you get a shot of her packing—and take off those pants.” That last part is directed back at me again.

“No.” I scowl down at my pretentiously bright bell bottoms. I want to keep arguing, but we all know I won’t.