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


The day Inara struts her tail—


—through the doors of Escape Worlds Headquarters, I’m gone for her.

I just don’t know it yet.

At the sound of the door chime heralding Inara’s entry, Stacy Parthenis, my harried-but-still-trying-to-be-cheerful seventeen-year-old receptionist chirps, “Hi! Welcome to Escape Worlds HQ, the best escape games in Chicago! Come on in and we’ll get you set up… for… the next… Wow.”

Her odd break in the greeting spiel has me glancing up from my desk to glare out into the reception area, which I have a view of from my office door. I’m glaring because it’s not like Stacy to break from her routine greeting. The kid’s been working for me for something like two years, and she knows exactly what to say and exactly how to say it to make customers happy enough to spend their money. She’s got the face of a newly feathered Greek angel and the business sense of a grizzled Wall Street shark.

She’s a nascent (swarthy) Dolly Parton.

With a muttered curse, I set my mug of cold coffee down. My mug that reads ‘the difference between coffee and your opinion is that I asked for coffee.’ It was a gift from my sister Kerry.

“There a problem?” I call out, voice low.

It’s possible the guest will hear me, but if they’re being an issue, then I don’t care. I do care about Stacy. No one fucks with my kid. No, she’s not mine mine, but we get a lot of high-roller suits (assholes) coming here for a fun retreat, and sometimes they mistake my employees as being part of the package. Stacy’s that horrible blend of genuinely sweet innocence and empyrean beauty, a dangerous combination that attracts men twice her age, for some reason. If I could get away with having her work the front while wearing a paper bag over her head, I fucking would. I don’t know where her dad is, but he should punch himself in the face for letting her out of the house without kitting her out in nothing less than a freaking Stormtrooper uniform—anything, something. I’m not trying to be sexist. I’m trying to keep the girl safe. But the fact that Stacy’s a pint-sized knockout in training and not an elite shock trooper belonging to the Galactic Empire works well for business because every man who walks in the door sees her and falls in love with her on sight. She can upsell escape rooms right at the door like you wouldn’t believe.

At my question, Stacy doesn’t react. I scan her, seeing her jaw is dropped, her mouth hanging open.

I get up from my seat.

Rounding my desk, I bite back my temper—or try. It’s a struggle, because today has been shit. Cooper and Tansy, the kids who work the alien escape room, turned eighteen yesterday and ran off to elope. I don’t usually care about my employee’s private lives. But they called me from Vegas to apologize that they’re not going to make it back in time for their shift—which started fifteen fucking minutes ago.

Their job was to dress up in the alien suits for the popular booked alien-themed escape room. I let the kids keep track of their costumes, which hasn’t bitten me on the ass until today, when I have no spare costumes here to stuff my other employees into.

Bottom line? I have no aliens.

Now I have an entire escape room that loses a lot of the experience, and that’s not gonna fly.

Tansy and Cooper think their parents are going to ream their Gretna Green/Vegas-racing asses when they get home? I’m here to tell you, they’ll have to get in line. I’m going to plant a boot so far up their newlywed-minted tailpipes, they won’t sit down til they’re in their thirties.

As I swing around my door, I’m already in threat-mode. “If there wasn’t a problem, there’s going to—”

Then I see who… what Stacy is staring at, and now it’s my turn to experience my jaw hitting the floor.

Because standing in our entryway is the most realistically costumed alien I have ever seen. I mean, how the fuck did I luck out?

I tip my head back, aiming my eyes at the ceiling. “There is a God, and He is very, very good to me.”

“No shit,” Stacy mutters.

“Hey,” I cut her a warning look. “No cussing til you’re twenty-five, remember?”

Stacy rolls her eyes. “Geez, Mom. Sorry.”

I pop an eyebrow at her.

Stacy flips her hair and heaves a sigh. But she also drops the attitude. “Sorry, Matt.” She sends Copyright 2016 - 2024