Chapter 12
GEMMA
The days counted down until they left the ship for Val Mori and Gemma fell back on old habits. She did what LeBeauxs always did when stressed, worried, or had some heavy thinking to do: they baked.
Gemma wanted to test the quality of the ingredients from the reconstructor.
Printed food had a reputation for being bland.
She ordered a basic chocolate chip cookie out of curiosity, and it was a disappointment that was spongy in texture and chalky in taste.
Technically edible but an insult to taste buds.
Cookies were a no go. How about the basic building blocks?
Flour, salt, and sugar should be easy for the reconstructor.
Butter would be tricky, and she had no idea if it could do eggs.
The yolk, the white, and the shell, seemed complicated and the machine did not handle complicated well.
If the eggs were a weird mess, she’d try powdered eggs next.
Beyond keeping her hands busy, the experiment gave her a chance to figure out how the rest of the kitchen equipment worked.
Every oven was different and the one in her apartment had been a diva with a hot spot that required her to rotate every batch of chicken nuggets—dinos were the best—lest half the dinos be burnt on the bottom.
So far, the most unexpected challenge was the counter height.
Designed for a Mahdfel, the counters were just a little too tall to work comfortably at.
Even the chairs at the dining table required her to hop into the seat, making her feel like a kid with the way her toes skimmed the floor.
Standing at the table to work was fine for now but not a good long-term solution.
She’d need a human-scale workbench or counter.
If she stayed.
Gemma grumbled about the treacherous way her brain started making plans.
Temporary. Everyone agreed.
So that was another thing to work through while she kept her hands busy.
The first batch of cookies were okay. Nothing spectacular, but she had ideas for improvement. The next batch was good enough, not great, but it made her feel confident about trying something more difficult. On to cupcakes.
When her father got his cancer diagnosis, he took Emry and Gemma into the kitchen and made sure they knew how to make the family recipes.
Then the aliens came, and when the world turned upside down, survival became the focus.
During the darkest days, he wrote recipes into a sparkly unicorn journal because that was the only paper he could find.
He survived the invasion, but he did not survive the cancer.
Gemma wanted that journal back desperately and added it to the top of the list of items she wanted shipped.
She needed to check with Emry if there was anything she wanted shipped.
When she took the private chef job, she sold most of her furnishings.
What she wanted to keep went into storage in Gemma’s spare bedroom.
Her days were busy with more than baking.
The goo foot soak treatment continued. The doctor—rude as ever—declared her progress satisfactory.
There was no mention of the translation chip.
Surely if there was a problem and it needed to be replaced, the doctor would have mentioned it.
He certainly didn’t pull any punches during the first visit.
In fact, the only person who seemed to think the chip was a problem was the intern.
Gemma really should rely on the experience of trained professionals and not a teenager earning education credits.
None of that stopped her from scratching behind her ear, like she could dig the chip out with her nails.
She sorted out the bakery’s crisis and promoted assistant manager Clarissa to full manager. Not knowing how reliable communications would be on the moon, Gemma authorized Clarissa on all the accounts. She also agreed to be the point person for the moving service.
Honestly, if Clarissa ran off with all the money, she deserved it.
Emry dragged her to a salon for a much-needed cut. Needing a change, she left with pastel pink hair in a pixie cut.
There were so many new names and faces to remember. Freely giving away cookies made sure everyone stopped by to say hello. Gemma had always been the more social of the twins, but the constant meet and -greet was wearing her out. Hiding away to make cupcakes was perfectly reasonable.
“What is this?” Zalis entered the room, carrying a dinner tray with a large earthenware pot, and paused.
“It’s a haircut.” She didn’t bother to ask for his opinion because it was her hair. Still, she found herself needing to explain her impulsive decision. “It was too long. It kept getting in my way.”
Zalis studied her long enough to make her feel self-conscious and squirm. Did she have flour on her face? Gemma scrubbed the sleeve of her shirt over her cheek.
“It is winsome,” he said.
Winsome. Who talked like that?
“Thank you. I like it,” she said, resisting the urge to touch her hair and preen.
His attention shifted to the tray of cupcakes cooling on the counter. “Another Earth confection.”
“Those are strawberry cupcakes,” she said, adding a dash more powdered sugar to the pink icing. The frosting wasn’t the fluffiest—she’d need a hand mixer at the very least—but it was delicious. Nothing could mess up the winning combinations of sugar, vanilla, and butter.
“What do you have there?” Zalis crowded close, managing to stick a finger into the frosting.
“Hey! Hygiene, mister. No one wants your gross germs.”
He licked the lump of sugary white frosting from his finger and grinned. Clearly zero regrets. “This is the best yet of your confections.”
“It gets better. Can you bring over that tray?” With the frosting at the consistency she wanted, she spooned it into a plastic bag.
Zalis watched as she piped the frosting onto the cupcakes. Years of muscle memory gently squeezed the piping bags and moved her arms, laying down a row of neatly swirled pink frosting.
He held up the finished product, his eyes moving from her to the cupcake. He didn’t say a word and yet she heard him perfectly clear.
“Go ahead,” she said and grabbed one for herself. Quality control and whatnot.
She split the top from the bottom and took a bite. Moist. A bit dense. The eggs needed work. She’d try powdered eggs next time. By the time she finished analyzing her cupcake, Zalis was on his third.
“Do you plan on having a real dinner tonight or is it all sugar?” she asked in a teasing tone.
His eyes never left her as he dragged a finger through the frosting and licked it clean.
Heat swept over her in a full body blush because the way he was looking at her was indecent.
“I, umm, we should—” The ability to form sentences left her body.
“You should not be on your feet and you require sustenance. Sit. We will eat while the food is hot, and then I will clean.”
The perfect partner.
“I’m not going to argue with that,” Gemma said, hopping into the slightly too tall chair. “Smells good, by the way. What did you get?”
“Tazheel.” He uncovered the earthenware pot, sending up a cloud of steam and fragrant aroma. A second dish revealed a fluffy yellow rice, or something that looked like rice. “It is a protein slow cooked with root vegetables and fruit. There is also a grain to serve alongside it.”
“I like all those things.”
Zalis dished up a plate, and Gemma happily grabbed a fork. They reached a truce when it came to food. She would try to eat anything that smelled and looked good. He wouldn’t harass her about how much she ate.
“It’s fruitier than I expected,” she said. An unexpected perk of living in space with aliens was all the exposure to new foods and flavor profiles. She liked food, all food from junk to haute cuisine, with the exception of fish—too many little bones. They weirded her out.
This was divine. The spices were fragrant, a balance of sweet and savory.
The meat fell apart. The root vegetable looked like a carrot but was starchy like a potato.
No, it was a bit more fibrous, closer to a cassava.
Still excellent and soaked up the sauce like a champ.
The bits of fruit were so chewy and sweet.
She took a forkful of the tazheel along with the fluffy rice and it was perfect.
“This is my new favorite,” she said around a mouthful.
“It is my favorite as well.”
“Listen, it’s unrelated but I think you should sleep in the bed tonight. Just to sleep. I don’t like you sleeping on the floor.” Was it too much, too soon? Probably. Listening to his steady, even breaths helped her sleep, but it felt wrong to relegate him to the floor.
“I do not mind.”
“Well, I do. We’re adults. We can share a bed.”
“But not blankets,” he said, repeating her words from nights ago.
She huffed in amusement. “Absolutely no sharing the blanket. I want to be wrapped up like a burrito.”
Dinner finished and the kitchen clean, Zalis suggested a movie.
Gemma checked the time. Her body still insisted on bakery hours—early to bed and rise at an unspeakable hour. Watching a movie would keep her up late but she didn’t have any reason to get up early. She could stay up as late as she pleased.
“Sounds good. I like the way you think, bud—” She stopped herself. “Zalis, I like the way you think.”
He grinned, flashing his fangs. It should have been menacing because that was a whole lot of teeth, but his eyes were excited. It was endearing. “I like the way you say my name.”
Desperate to keep her cool and not giggle like a tween, she rolled her eyes. There. Totally ice cold. “No fair flirting when I’m full and sleepy.”
“I already declared my intentions of playing dirty.”
Oh dear. There was no being cool about that.
“We need popcorn,” she declared, rising to her feet.
“Is popcorn traditional?”