The Alien's Little Sister (Stolen by an Alien #8) - Amanda Milo Page 0,82

Her skirt is a simple A-line, and her legs are shapely and long. She evidently sees something alarming behind us—because she swiftly turns back to the thin strip of pedestrian travel path ahead of herself and hurries forward.

I take a wary glance over my shoulder too, but see no one. However, I am unfamiliar with the area, and therefore, I’m unfamiliar with (and possibly vulnerable to) the local dangers.

It’s also a dusky-skyed day and I read a factoid that human crime tends to increase when darkness falls. Although it’s merely noontime on this part of Earth, perhaps it is dark enough for crimes to occur. Quickly facing forward, I speed up to close the distance between myself and the lone female. Somehow, just being in an Earthen female’s vicinity is comforting.

Soon, my longer strides have nearly caught me up to her. Strangely though, even though I’ve followed her around two corners and the length of one human village’s traffic square, when she glances over her shoulder again, something she sees is still clearly upsetting to her, because she attempts to increase her speed. Though she appears quite soignée (and I’ve been informed I have quite the eye for fashion), her footwear is not up to the task of such speed, and she trips in her stylish pumps.

I rush for her. “Oh no! Female, are you injured?”

“Stay away from me!” she shouts from the rough plascrete-like surface she’s crumpled on.

It’s a clear order.

I skid to a stop, obedient to her command. But I glance around us, expecting to see a threat in the area, knowing something caused her to attempt a high-risk race. “Who is frightening you?” I ask.

She stares at me, her mouth open. Then her eyes narrow and she shouts, “Are you serious right now?”

At the aggression nearly boiling off of her, I cringe and ease further away.

I take another keek behind us. (Keek is a rare word in this region’s variant of human tongue; it means a glance made surreptitiously.) Still, no one is there. Warily, I return my gaze to my companion to see she’s gotten to her feet, but she’s somewhat braced, as if she’s ready to spin and run at the slightest provocation. Stymied, I ask, “Were you hurt? Do you require chocolate?” I ask. “I don’t have any with me at the moment, but I can Comm for help.”

If possible, her eyes narrow further. “Are you crazy?”

I blink, thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “No. I’m not. I assure you—I’ve been tested.” I saw my file. I received full recommendation to make this mate-seeking journey to Earth. Admittedly, it was largely because my friend, Gracie, campaigned for me. (And then her mate, Dohrein, began to insist as well, on account of his concern at my closeness to Gracie, although I strenuously attempted to assure him that he had no reason to worry.)

The woman before me looks me up and down, measuring me. “I was ‘frightened,” she says, bringing up both of her hands and tapping the air with her forefingers and middle digits.

(This behavior is called ‘finger quotes’—a gesture commonly seen on this continent of the planet Earth. I’m quite familiar with it; it’s often employed by the group of human females who reside on my home planet. Finger quotes are such interesting examples of human nonverbal communication.)

“—because a huge-ass stranger was freaking chasing me!” the woman finishes on a heated, baffling note.

My jaw slackens, and I twist to glare at the way we’ve come. “Point them out! I’ll pro—”

“I’m talking about you.”

Utterly shocked, I face her again. “Me?”

The female gives me an incredulous look, her eyes going wide. “You see anybody else chasing me for two damn blocks?”

“Blocks,” I murmur under my breath. “The British definition would not apply in this locale, thus you would be referring to the distance of a metropolitan area and not sections of housing…”

The woman frowns. “Are you British?”

“Oh, no. I was instructed by a female of British origin,” I explain with as much honesty as I deem prudent. Obviously, it won’t do to inform her that I’m not a natural inhabitant of her planet. She might receive the impression that I’m her new neighborhood lunatic.

That would be incorrect. I’m an alien.

She raises a miniature tablet (a cell phone, I recognize from my human-study pamphlet), glances at its face, and rapidly drops it again. Likely, she was checking the time, which her world runs by on strict schedules set in twenty-four allotments called hours. But she doesn’t