Garret peered through the café curtains. “News crew,” he whispered.
Hannah’s outline appeared in the door’s frosted window. Perched on the top step, she hollered, “Until he’s healed, your viewers can shove it up their collective—”
Xander flung open the door and smiled wide for the camera trained on his furious, marvelous girlfriend—because he’d be damned if he’d let go of a woman this sexy and loyal and fierce.
“Hey, Han, I didn’t know we were expecting company.”
She whirled so fast her ponytail whipped his cheek. “Xander! You’re supposed to be in bed.”
Holding the door frame for balance, he snugged her against his side and whispered, “The minute the doc gives her okay, beauty, you and I are gonna break every spring in that bed.”
Lids lowered, she hummed deep in her throat, too softly for anyone else to hear, and ran her hand over his chest. That private moment lasted only a second or two, but it was enough to give him hope. Hannah might be traumatized and eaten up with remorse, but she was still his.
Her caress turned into a bug-eyed stare when she registered his goofy outfit: the alien-print pajamas, slit to the knee on one side to accommodate his cast, plus a vintage Souvenir Planet hoodie, UFO-shaped sunglasses, and a ball cap topped with a light-up flying saucer, all salvaged from Gus’s inventory as Christmas presents for his nieces and nephews. He pressed a button on the band, and the plastic craft spun and made pew-pew noises.
“Just getting in the Trappers Cove spirit,” he told her.
Behind him, Garrett giggled.
“Hi there,” Xander greeted the gaping reporter and her crew. “I remember you from the day of the—” he scratched his chin. “What should we call it—the collapse? The disaster? The big kaboom?”
“I, uh,” the young reporter spluttered.
“Shit, man, you look like hell,” the cameraman blurted.
The reporter shot him a death glare.
“Sorry, no offense,” the guy said.
“None taken.” Hell, two weeks after the accident, Xander jolted at his reflection if he didn’t brace himself. Most of his bruises had faded from purple to green and yellow, but he still resembled a tie-dye project gone horribly wrong. At least this UFO cap covered his bald patch and ugly stitches.
Recovering her composure, the reporter thrust a mic in his face—well, she tried, but Hannah knocked it away with a Jackie Chan chop. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve been deflecting their calls for two weeks.”
“It’s okay, beauty.” He released the doorframe, wrapped his free arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek. “You’ve been the most devoted bodyguard ever to guard a body, but it’s time for me to—er, pull up my big boy pants and handle my business.” He flapped the fabric of his comically large pajama pants.
The cameraman chortled.
“Now then, Ms.—”
She tugged the hem of her blazer. “Brianna Wu, KNXT News.”
Might as well have a little fun with the intruder. “Ah yes. We saw your clip online—over and over and over.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You’re welcome.”
Flustered, she inquired about his recovery.
“Coming along as well as can be expected. Anything else?” He squeezed Hannah’s waist. “Pacific County’s best journalist and I have a lot to discuss.”
Hannah made a cute little squeak and flushed rose pink.
“Mr. Aganos,”
“Anagnos,” Hannah corrected her.
“Sorry. Mr. Anagnos, the Pacific Northwest community of UFO investigators is up in arms over the loss of the cosmic vortex. What would you like to say to them?”
“Pfft.” He shot Hannah a ‘can you believe this idiot?’ look. “The correct term is UAPs, unidentified anomalous phenomena.”
Stuck in bed and half-mad with boredom, he’d researched the topic that obsessed his uncle. Despite his skepticism, he had to admit the stories were intriguing. Not that he was packing for his trip to Alpha Centauri anytime soon, but Hannah was right—it couldn’t hurt to keep an open mind.
