Psy (Alien Castaways #3) - Cara Bristol Page 0,19

course, but why not bring them home where you can enjoy them?”

I spend more time at work. If she took them home, Rosalie would see them.

The bell over the door rang, followed by a murmuring of female voices.

“Whatever you want.” Verna hurried off to greet the customers.

Cassie fingered a soft petal and inhaled the sweet fragrance and then opened the tiny envelope stuck in the roses. I’m sorry for everything. Please forgive me. – Psy.

There was nothing to forgive; she had wronged him by leaping to erroneous conclusions. Thank goodness he’d forgiven her.

Writing used to be her normal, but telepathy had shown what communication could be. Easy. Fast. She could be as long-winded as she desired. Have a deep discussion. Use her hands when speaking.

What if new medical advances could help her? How bad could the tests be? Maybe to a baby, it had seemed painful, but perhaps to an adult, it would be tolerable?

Cassie tucked the card into her pocket and carried the roses to the floor. Verna conferred with a customer examining a steamer trunk, while a pretty brunette woman and a little girl studied a teacup display. The child picked up a delicate china cup, extended her pinky, and pretended to take a drink.

“Put that down, Izzy,” the mother said. “If you break it, I have to buy it—and that one is a little more than I want to pay for a play set.” She eyed the bouquet. “What beautiful flowers! They smell wonderful, too.”

Cassie smiled a thank you, rested the roses on the table edge, and tried to move the heavy multi-arm silver candelabra.

“Let me help.” The woman picked up the candleholder.

Cassie centered the vase on the table and grabbed her notebook. Thank you. I’m unable to speak. I have to write notes.

“Oh. I understand,” she said. “You work here, I take it?”

Yes. Can I help you find something?

“We’re interested in a tea set. My daughter Izzy had one, but it got broken.”

We have many nice ones. There are more on the shelves over there. She pointed.

“We saw those.” Her mouth twisted ruefully. “They were a little pricey, I’m afraid. I’m hoping to find an inexpensive set she can play with.”

How about some mismatched cups and saucers? There’s a bargain table in the rear of the store.

“That sounds good.”

“What’s this?” Izzy pointed to the Royal on the table/desk. The vintage office display had captured a lot of attention. Several items from the tableau had sold and had to be replaced.

“A typewriter,” the woman explained.

“What does it do?”

“You use it to write with. Like on a computer but the words are printed on paper instead of a screen,” she explained.

I can get paper. She can try it.

“Do you want to type, Izzy?”

“Yeah!”

Cassie rolled a sheet into the machine and typed:

Hello, Izzy,

My name is Cassie. I can’t speak, but I can type. Do you want to try?

The little girl squinted at what Cassie had written and pecked out, How come you can’t speak?

Never learned how, she replied.

“Can I have a typewriter?” Izzy peered up at her mom.

“We came for a tea set, not a typewriter.”

Something white flashed outside the window, and then a huge man landed on the sidewalk, folded his wings, and waved through the window.

Izzy and her mother waved. “That’s Angel,” the little girl said.

“Izzy calls him Angel, but he’s an alien. He goes by Wynn or Wingman. He’s my husband. We’re genmates.”

Now she recognized him. She’d seen him on the bridge of the Castaway. She scrawled, He’s a friend of Psy.

“You met Psy?” The woman raised her eyebrows.

We’re dating.

“Ohh…” The woman grinned. “Congratulations! I’m Delia, by the way. I should have introduced myself. Would you like to meet Wingman?”

Yes, I would. Everything about Psy’s life fascinated her, especially his alien friends. She’d never imagined meeting one extraterrestrial, let alone two!

“Hey, Verna! Cassie’s stepping outside for a sec!” Delia yelled.

“Okay!”

You know Verna?

“Everyone knows everybody in Argent. I work a couple of doors down at the Whitetail Tavern.”

Cassie had never ventured inside the bar—or any bar. She realized how cloistered she was, missing out on normal adult activities. More than ever, she was determined to assume control of her life and break out of the protective bubble.

Delia beckoned.

He can come inside!

Shaking her head, Delia chuckled. “You’ve heard of a bull in a china shop? Imagine an alien with a twelve-foot wingspan. He can fold his wings pretty tight, but it’s uncomfortable and accidents happen.”

Up close, Wingman made an imposing impression. Other than the wings, nothing about him