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the future. Then one miserably sunny morning, after a thirty-six-hour shift at the hospital, she’d answered a knock on her front door, wearing only a faded X - Files t-shirt and boxers and holding a 24
    Alien Overnight
    half-eaten bowl of Cap’n Crunch, to find a couple of suits standing on her front porch—
    a less than stellar start to her interstellar career as Dr. Teague, Medicine Chick.
    They’d flashed Secret Service IDs, eyeing her shirt with thinly veiled contempt as they sauntered in and turned off her TV without so much as an apology. Then they’d grilled her at length about the meaning of her life, and when she’d finally concluded it had no meaning and was ready to ask for one of their guns and eat it, they’d offered her the chance to do more, to be more. And she’d taken it, if only to find out what the Garathani might really be up to.
    Of course, she’d had to sell her cute little English cottage in Kellen Gardens, which was like excising her own heart with a plastic spork from the Chicken Shack. You could have knocked her over with a cotton swab when, the day after she moved into the Beaumont–Thayer Compound, her orientation partner pointed out a tawny-haired seven-foot alien in an outrageously formfitting uniform and cooed, “That’s Commander Kellen. God, isn’t he just dreamy!”
    What were the odds that she’d have another Kellen in her life so soon after giving up the last one? The name wasn’t exactly ubiquitous, at least not on this planet. On Garathan, who knew? Maybe it was their equivalent of John.
    “Kind of you to join us today, Dr. Teague.”
    Monica jerked, sending the empty coffee cup careening off the side of her desk and onto the utilitarian carpet.
    “Thanks a lot, Commander,” she muttered, leaning down without looking at him and trying hard not to blush. “Ever hear of knocking?”
    Their fingers made unexpected contact over the smooth ceramic and she snatched hers back as if they’d been burned. So much for not blushing . When he set the cup on her desk without replying, Monica met his eyes briefly before looking away, her cheeks hot.
    Usually sunglasses lent her a certain feeling of anonymity, but not today. Today she felt absolutely naked in front of him.
    “Thank you.”
    “Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, Doctor?”
    His chiseled face was devoid of expression, but she could tell from his tone that he’d enjoyed asking her that. The man had an unusually good grasp of the subtleties of the English language—for an alien—and a well-known fondness for euphemisms, the more obscure the better.
    Whether he was trying for amusing or annoying at the moment was impossible to tell, but at least he’d provided a convenient excuse for her behavior. He’d rattled her enough that she was no longer in the mood to confront him about the guards. She just wanted him gone so she could break down in peace.
    “That about sums it up,” she said, nodding.
    “Why?”
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    Robin L. Rotham
    Well, shit. Go away , Commander , her eyes telegraphed through the tinted lenses.
    Unfortunately, he wasn’t getting the message. Planting his feet slightly apart and clasping his hands behind him, he stared at her like he’d heard something freaky was about to happen to her and he didn’t want to miss it. His military posture threw the bulge at his crotch into prominent relief and only divine intervention could have kept her eyes from settling there. None was forthcoming.
    Speaking of freaky things you wouldn’t want to miss…
    “Doctor?”
    Suddenly drowning in drool, Monica swallowed hard and met his gaze again. The barest hint of a smile curved one corner of his mouth.
    “I, um…I just didn’t sleep well last night.” Oh hell, she was blushing. Again. Damn that stupid dream! Until this morning, she’d felt pretty comfortable with Commander Kellen and the other Garathani reps. Now she felt off balance and embarrassed in his presence. And crabby. Hopefully,