“No, dear. I’m successful.” Gerri’s eyes flashed gold for just a moment. “One hundred percent success rate with my business ventures. Just think about the exposure. You could be seen on a universal stage.”
“I can’t just abandon my bakery.”
“For one week? Honey, this place will still be here when you get back. The question is whether you’ll have the money to keep it.”
Faith’s chest tightened. The offer sounded impossible, ridiculous, too good to be true. Which meant it probably was.
Faith’s laugh carried the sharp edge of someone who’d heard too many impossible promises. “Ms. Wilder, with all due respect, this sounds like the kind of scam my grandmother warned me about.”
“The kind where strangers offer desperate people exactly what they need?” Gerri’s smile didn’t waver. “Smart grandmother.”
Faith crossed her arms. “I don’t trust strangers bearing gifts, and I sure as hell don’t believe in dating aliens for money.”
“Good. Desperation makes people stupid.” Gerri reached into her purse and withdrew a thick folder. “But intelligence makes people curious.”
The folder hit the counter with a satisfying thud. Faith found herself rifling through documents that looked more official than her own business license. Letterheads from organizations she’d only seen in news articles. References from CEOs whose names graced magazine covers. Charity endorsements from foundations that moved mountains.
“Paranormal Dating Agency.” Faith read the heading aloud, tasting the absurdity. “You’re a matchmaker.”
“Among other things.” Gerri flipped through pages with practiced efficiency. “Disaster relief coordinator. Interplanetary cultural liaison. Philanthropist. The matchmaking is more of a calling than a profession.”
Faith scanned testimonials that read like fairy tales with bank statements attached. Success stories measured in both hearts and hefty donations to worthy causes. The numbers made her head spin. Then Gerri handed Faith a contract for the royal commission to the festival on Nova Aurora.
Faith skimmed it with practiced efficiency. “This contract.” Faith’s finger traced a clause near the bottom. “Immediate return home, no penalties, no obligations.”
“You don’t owe anyone anything,” Gerri said, her voice softer now. “Including me. But you never know when romance might strike.”
The words hung between them like smoke. Faith felt the familiar tightness in her chest—the same suffocating sensationshe’d experienced whenever Chet had talked about their “future plans” without consulting her.
“I would be going there for my skills, not my heart.”
“Of course, dear. Though hearts have a way of making their own decisions.” Gerri’s eyes flashed gold again, just for a heartbeat. “Think about it. Get back to me tonight.”
She left the folder on the counter and walked toward the door, her heels clicking against worn tiles like a countdown timer.
“Ms. Wilder.” Faith’s voice stopped her at the threshold. “If this is real?—“
“It’s real, honey. But are you brave enough to grab it?”
The door chimed her exit, leaving Faith alone with paperwork that smelled faintly of vanilla and lightning.
The afternoon dragged like a funeral march. Faith served her usual customers with mechanical precision while the folder burned holes in her peripheral vision. Every time the register drawer opened, the stack of unpaid bills underneath reminded her of mathematics that refused to lie.
When the last customer left and she flipped the sign to closed, silence settled over the bakery like dust. Faith pulled out her calculator and the invoices she’d been avoiding. The numbers stared back at her with brutal honesty.
Rent: $3,200. Utilities: $487. Loan payment: $1,850. The commission Gerri offered could cover all of it with enough left over to fix the oven and maybe even advertise more.
One week.
Seven days on an alien planet wasn’t running away from her dreams—it was a calculated investment in keeping them alive. Faith signed the contract with a hand steadier than her heartbeat. Her signature looked bold against the crisp white paper, like a declaration of war against circumstance.
Minutes later, upstairs in her apartment, she stared at her suitcase with the bewilderment of someone packing for Mars. Which, technically, she was. Her chef’s coat went in first—the white cotton armor that made her feel competent and professional. Working clothes followed: jeans that had survived flour explosions and sneakers that knew every crack in the bakery floor.
Then came the hard part. Public events meant formal wear, and Faith’s idea of formal was a clean apron over dark jeans. She pulled out the black dress she’d worn to the awards ceremony—simple, elegant, proof she could clean up when necessary. Then a pair of heels that pinched but looked expensive enough to pass inspection. She picked up her phone and dialed the number on Gerri’s business card as she packed toiletries with her free hand.
“Gerri Wilder speaking.”
“I signed your contract.” Faith’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “I’ll be ready in an hour.”