He didn’t look like he tried at all for this date. What kind of guy did that? His shirt collar was bent and wrinkled, and all three buttons were open to his chest, revealing a mat of oily, dark hair and pimples.

  Somehow, he’d managed to tuck the back of the shirt in, but the front simply would not hold in that stomach. What worried her more were the tight brown pants.

  As he sat back and stretched, she wondered if she should take cover. They looked like they were one bite from exploding off his body. Elissa shuddered at the image.

  Please God, if You have an ounce of mercy, don’t let that happen, she prayed.

  “Hang on, doll, I gotta take this,” he said, and turned to answer his cell phone.

  It was ringing to the tune of ‘70s disco music she hadn’t heard since the last family reunion. Her eyes kept going to the huge stain on the front of his shirt. It was a little game she liked to call what the hell is that.

  Coffee, she guessed.

  “Up your ass, Bruno. I gotta have it by Monday,” he cursed into the receiver.

  Elissa winced at the spectacle he was making of them both. There were only a handful of people there, but still.

  Deep breaths.

  Ew. Maybe not.

  She coughed as the strong body spray, that he’d obviously used a ton of in lieu of a shower, bad move in her opinion, invaded her lungs.

  Oh, this was so bad.

  Elissa was, by no means, a snob. But this guy looked like he’d stepped out of a bad 1980s mafia spoof film. What’s worse, he kept smacking his lips together as he hung up the phone and looked her over from head to chest.

  Thank fuck for the table, she thought, wishing she could hide her bosoms from his view.

  “Ssssss,” he hissed, like it was sexy or something.

  She just grimaced. Elissa might be able to forgive a lot of quirks, but she hated mouth noises. Really hated them. It was a super pet peeve of hers. Never mind his totally inappropriate and unwelcomed leer.

  She started counting the minutes, willing the date to be over already. Plenty of people would tell her she shouldn’t be so choosy, but really? She was not this desperate.

  Not yet anyway.

  So, she was curvy and a little mouthy too. But was it wrong to want a man with good table manners? Even if men were thin on the ground for someone like her.

  As a chef, she’d worked in a lot of restaurants and even as a personal cook for professional couples. She’d seen her fair share of unhappy couples and downright uncomfortable marriages. But as far as she was concerned, all relationships went downhill when good table manners were dismissed.

  Good manners were merely a sign that a person was thoughtful and respectful. At least, that was what Nonna had told her. Gianni here had clearly missed that lesson as a child. Elissa had to work not to groan in disgust as he slurped a raw clam down his gullet.

  Shudder.

  Was there no end to his feeding? That’s what it reminded her of. Feeding time at the zoo.

  OMG. That was rude, she scolded herself. But it wasn’t like she said it out loud.

  All she wanted to do was go home. At least she was comfortable. She’d worn her softest pair of black leggings for this disaster date, paired with one of her favorite tunics on top.

  It was dark green with tiny black buttons down the front and showed just the right amount of cleavage. She’d gone for neat and tidy as opposed to downright sexy.

  Good call, in her opinion. Elissa looked perfectly fine for a nice getting to know you dinner, which is what she thought she was getting when her roommate asked her to step in for her on a blind date that one of her best client’s had set up for her.

  Elissa shuddered now, thinking how good old Gianni here would’ve reacted to the red dress and heels she’d contemplated before checking the weather report.

  Gulp.

  The lewd man was already salivating, and she was so not having it. Fending off his unwanted advances was not how she wanted to finish the night.

  Ew again.

  Elissa shivered, slightly chilled despite the fact they were indoors. It was a cold, gloomy evening, and the forecast called for even more rain later that night. Not at all unusual for this time of year in the Garden State.

  November was always chilly in the evenings, rainy too. Elissa tended to run warm, but she was glad she’d brought a jacket with her. Especially since her date refused to turn the heat on in the car.

  When she’d asked, he’d looked offended and told her it wasted gas.

  Um. Okay.

  She checked her phone. It was only seven o’clock, but the two hour drive was still ahead of them. Maybe they could make it home before ten if they left soon.

  Ugh. Did he just blow his nose?

  “Allergies, doll. Say, you gonna eat that?” he asked before scooping a fry from her dish and swallowing it down.

  Elissa was gonna kill her roomie. Gretchen was a hair and nail stylist. A lot of her clients were elderly, and they just loved her. They were always offering to set her up on blind dates with their nephews and grandsons.

  Mostly, the sweet old ladies were kind. They swore they could find her curvy roommate the right man, assuming she was single because she was new to town. Well, when Elissa got home tonight, she was going to tell Gretchen she needed to fire the old lady who set this date up from being her client.

  Like ASAP.

  No one who liked Gretchen would’ve sent her out with this guy. Gianni reached over and touched her hand and Elissa pulled back, reaching for the napkin.

  Gross.

  "I sure hope you ain’t a cold one, doll,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “Ain’t gonna matter. I know just what you need, doll.”

  She was still wiping the greasy residue he’d transferred to her skin from the food he ate sans utensils. This was too much. Elissa was beyond uncomfortable with all the leering and bad attempts at innuendo.

  Plus, she was starving. One look at the dump he’d taken her to, and she knew she could never eat there. The chef in her wouldn’t allow it.

  To think they drove two hours for this! She’d practically frozen to death in his maroon Cadillac, listening to a CD of the Rat Pack, while Gianni crooned loudly, and off key, to the music.

  Normally, she was a fan of the famous group of legendary singers. Having grown up in Hoboken, she couldn’t not be a Sinatra fan. Though, to be honest, Dean Martin had always been her favorite.

  Still, Elissa was a firm believer that there were just some people you did not try to imitate. Especially not if you were Little Gianni. While he was belting his heart out, he’d been trying to get his right hand on her thigh. She’d asked him politely to stop.

  Twice.

  Then she’d been forced to try something a little more drastic. Like spilling her hot tea on the offending hand the third time he’d tried it. Finally, he’d removed his hand from her leg. Not making a fourth attempt, which she was grateful for.

  Elissa should’ve taken that behavior as a sign and gotten out of the car. But no. She’d wanted to do Gretchen a solid. So, against her better judgement, she gave the creep another chance.

  Idiota, her grandmother’s voice echoed in her brain again.

  The old woman had loved her. Elissa knew that without a doubt. She’d raised her after her own parents had passed on in a tragic automobile accident when Elissa was just twelve.

  Her grandmother was a no-nonsense kind of lady who dished out priceless wisdom with brutally honest insights. It was the same way she dished out huge bowls of pasta with her amazing meatballs and homemade sauce. Not to mention a side order of back-breaking hugs that Elissa still missed.

  Nonna cooked like that all the time. She made a huge pot of sauce every weekend, and she was happy to serve it to Elissa and her teammates and friends, especially after games and tournaments.

  Soccer had been her sport of choice, and cooking had soon become her favorite hobby. Her grandmother had encouraged her in both pursuits. Guiding her in one and cheering her on in the other. Elissa still missed her terribly.

  “Hey babe, ain’t you gonna eat nothin’? You know they charge twenty dollars just to sit down,” Little Gianni interrupted her train of thought.

  Elissa was forced to turn her mind back to the present, which unfortunately included watching, and hearing, him as he sucked on his teeth and stuffed another breaded shrimp down his throat.

  “I’m fine,” she answered with a polite smile plastered on her face.

  Just get home, Lissa. Just get him to take you home.

  Elissa closed her eyes when he looked back down at his dish. Thank God for small favors, she mused. At least he was more interested in eating at the moment.

  He’d taken her to the rattiest looking hotel and casino she’d ever seen in her life. And the buffet room?

  Ew.

  Seriously, the place had to be violating at least a dozen health codes. When Gianni had said Atlantic City, she’d thought at least the atmosphere would be exciting. But they were so far from the real glitz and entertainment, they might as well be anywhere else.

  She sighed, looking at the plate she’d made for herself. Elissa couldn’t even fake an interest in the food. As a chef, it was hard enough to dine out.

  She was always judging the food, the service, the ingredients. How could she not? It was her business. And that was when the food was good!

  This was not good. Not at all.

  She’d been to hospitals that served better food. Old yellow lights buzzed and blinked around the buffet, giving it an abandoned kind of feel. The menu was made up of mostly frozen then fried or baked cuisine.

  Reheated actually. It was like a giant TV dinner buffet where every item was previously frozen when already cooked and warmed up in an oven.

  It was the kind of food sold cheap at restaurant supply stores in bulk. Yeah, this was much worse than hospital food, in her opinion.

  There was a worn carpet on the floor, a handful of scattered tables in the dining room, elevator music on in the background, and the entire place smelled like canned soup.

  Not to mention not one of the five people there besides them was under sixty years old.

  “Gianni,” she said, leaning forward so as not to hurt his feelings.

  “I thought you mentioned something about seeing a show tonight. Is it here?”

  Please don’t be here.

  If he was taking her somewhere else, she could beg off and hire a cab to take her home. There was no way she was sitting through anything else with this man. Not now. Not ever.

  “Ah, I see, babe, you want some entertainment first, I get it,” he snickered loudly, and she blanched.

  Whatever he thought was going to happen wasn’t. She needed to disabuse him of the notion, and fast.

  “Alright, alright. Lemme finish this, babe. Then we’ll go up to the room I got for us,” he said.

  Before she could make sense of the ludicrous statement, he slurped another fried shrimp, don’t ask how. Then he grabbed her arm and yanked her from the seat before she could even react.

  Elissa tugged on his hold, but the man was immovable. Tossing a five-dollar bill on the table, Little Gianni snatched a toothpick from the hostess stand before dragging her outside.

  Great, he was a cheap tipper, too.

  All she wanted was to go home. Figuring the best way to do that would probably be to get him to the car, she let him lead the way.

  Once inside, she would ask him to drive back to Hoboken so she could wring Gretchen’s neck. Fuming, she pulled her arm out of his hand and walked behind him.

  The rain was really pouring, and the cheap bastard had refused valet. Elissa ducked her head so she wouldn’t get so wet. Of course, the jacket she’d brought was light and had no hood.

  Gianni had an umbrella, but he didn’t offer to hold it for her, and honestly, she did not relish the idea of getting any closer to him than necessary.

  Seriously, not happening.

  Now all she had to do was break the news. She had no intention of watching a show or returning to the hotel with him.

  What could go wrong?

  Grab your copy at https://www.cdgorri.com/books/purrfectly-mated!

  EXCERPT FROM ALIEN PROTECTOR

  Daeja paced the tiny rectangular holding cell for the ten thousandth time since the small welcoming committee had placed her there.

  Their phrase, not hers.

  She scoffed. Her Drakein had been growling incessantly inside her mind’s eye since she arrived.

  There was nothing welcoming about the dozen armed non-Drakeins who’d aimed their loud, barbaric weapons at her immediately upon seizing her person.

  Inconceivable.

  She did not know how they did it, but the planet’s simplistic natives seemed to detect her single exploration pod the moment it touched ground.

  When was that exactly? Hmmm.

  She struggled to recall her lessons in measuring time on this planet. Non-Drakein 9, or Earth, as it was called by the natives, was strange indeed. They had but one sun and moon and time, though ever moving, was counted in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, centuries—so very bizarre for beings who lived for blips of a Drakein’s lifetime.

  Using her practiced calculations, she estimated at least two Earth hours had passed since she entered these prison quarters.

  Grrr.

  Her Drakein was not impressed. Dust motes floated in the air, and it smelled of mildew and mold.

  She should have shifted to her magnificent beast before they’d cuffed her with those confounded metal shackles. The manacles proved too potent for even her great strength—a feat she would not have credited non-Drakeins with being able to pull off.

  They were a tricky alien species, indeed. Granted, Daeja was not a warrior. But all Drakein were fierce. Her own inner beast was a wondrous creature with brilliant scales ranging in hue from the palest petal pink to the same deep mauve of the moons that had at one time circled her home planet.

  Melancholy seized her, and Daeja closed her eyes and swayed on her feet until it passed. She was frightened, but more than that, she was embarrassed. Like a youngling, she’d been bested before her feet even touched the ground!

  Grrrr.

  Grimacing, she placed her hands over her stomach. It growled loudly in the small chamber for as many times in the past few minutes.

  Her inner beast reminded her it had been a full rotation of this planet’s sun, a day as the non-Drakein’s called it, since she’d consumed the last of her allotted rations.

  Frek.

  Her cheeks heated at using the Drakein curse word, even if in her own head. The non-Drakein 9, or Earth, word for it would be fuck.

  Strange, she observed. During their travels, the survivors of the Drakein war had come across countless alien planets and ships. Some were peaceful, others were not.

  One of the peaceful visitations yielded them a translator device that was injected into the bloodstream. The way she understood it to work was thousands of nanobots attached themselves to neurons in the brain and acted as language processors.

  Definitely a good trade, giving them their last twenty cases of Drakein sweet wine for the tech. Of course, she’d been punished for acting without permission. But it was worth it now.

  Daeja’s stomach rumbled again, and she wondered if this planet fed its prisoners. They seemed less hostile than she’d anticipated. After all, manacles aside, the holding cell was rather comfortable.

  Neither hot nor cold, there was light, a constant stream of air filtering in through overhead vents, and a chair for her to sit upon. Quite nice, actually.

  The Flamebound Clan, to whom she’d been born, would have afforded any prisoner of war a reception rivaling that of an expected guest—food, drink, bath, and rest—though not necessarily in that order.

  Unfortunately, the Viper Clan had won the war. They favored much harsher treatments and were less hospitable overall. They ruled the small ship that was all that remained of their home planet, Drakein, with an iron claw.

  If only she’d studied Non-Drakein 9—Earth, she repeated the name in her head, committing it to memory—a little more before the Commander had sent her to its surface.

  But Daeja was not in control of her situation. She had no voice in the matter. Trained as a healer, she’d been a medical engineer upon their ship. Her words did not matter to those in charge.

  Only explorers and warriors could vote, and they were all from the Viper Clan. True, sparring was a favorite pastime among the Drakein, but that differed from war.

  What was she doing here? This assignment was better suited to an explorer or scientist or warrior, for frek’s, er, make that, fuck’s sake!

  Her place was among the medical decks of the ship, not scouting an alien landscape. Everything was so different here.

  The very colors of the planet favored whites, blues, and greens, whereas Drakeinan was all pinks, purples, and grays. She’d hoped to make a home for herself and the others, but their insipid commander wished for one thing—to rule.

  Curse Cass Viper and his zealous efforts to ensure his leadership! Before the war, this would not have happened.

  Her heart twisted inside her chest as she recalled the stories from her old Clan. Alas, the Vipers had defeated the Flamebound, and saying, even thinking, anything against the new regime was akin to treason.

  What would I give to live in a place where peace reigned, not mad rulers?

  Daeja gritted her teeth with worry for her apakein, her grandfather. Her mother’s father was all she had left of her family.

  What would he think of her failure? Would he even have a chance to reflect before the Commander executed him?

  Gods, please protect my apakein.

  The coward would not hesitate to take his revenge on the gentle elder, and it was revenge. She would make no mistake about that.

  After all, it was Daeja who had dared refused his suit. The unpleasant memories of his unwanted attentions assailed her as she waited in her holding cell.

  Commander Viper called her to his room one fated day after daily rations had been distributed.

 

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