Page 1 of Romancing the Clone (Sunrise Cantina #3)

CHAPTER

ONE

SIMONE

Michelle had been a terrible girlfriend.

She’d been scatterbrained and rude, and messy as could be.

Selfish, too. She made sure that she came, and then if you didn’t, that was your problem.

We were only together for a few months before I got tired of that shit and we broke up.

That was long before aliens invaded my life and stole me to the other end of the universe, though.

I think about Michelle this morning as I check my sourdough “pet” in the window of my home, because Michelle was a lot of things but she was also a baker, and so I’d heard far more about baking than any woman had a right to.

I’d watched all the baking shows with her, and while I’d never tried my hand at any of it, I remember a lot of things Michelle would say when people messed up.

Oh, that dummy just put carton egg whites in the mixer. Her meringue is never going to whip.

She didn’t let her bread rise for long enough. That’s going to be a problem.

She’s putting a drizzle on her cake to keep the crumb from tasting too dry. That’s smart.

Michelle’s voice is in my head as I work on the baked goods for my cart this morning.

I’m not much of a baker, but I am a savvy businesswoman, and when I got here to Risda and saw that the only place serving food that you could take away with you was that nasty-ass cantina?

I saw opportunity. I ditched the idea of farming and asked to start my own business.

Well…that’s kinda how it happened. It wasn’t that farming was bad.

It was that a few months after I arrived, my friend Dora showed up with a carinoux kitten for me.

Apparently they’re highly sought-after guard cats.

I took one look at the kittenish face and fell in love.

I named him Pluto, and he’s been the absolute joy of my time here.

He’s also going to be the size of a tiger when he’s grown and has eight legs and scaly skin.

So in addition to being huge and always hungry, he terrifies the cattle.

It makes being a cattle rancher difficult, and I’d much rather have Pluto than a farm full of cows.

I made a deal with the Port Custodians and sold my farm back to them in exchange for an income stipend.

I could sit around and do nothing all day, but… that gets old fast.

So…baking. I can bake in the morning, and when I sell out, I can close up and roll my cart home.

If I sell out an hour after I set up, I can take the rest of the day off.

If business is slow on that end of the street, I can move closer to the spaceship yards and the official “Port” where the workers are.

And someday I’m going to have a second cart, I decide. One full of sweets and one full of savories. One full of cupcakes and the other full of seed-filled breads and maybe even veggie hand-pies.

For now, though, I’m starting small.

I take the jar of sourdough starter and spoon out enough for the day, then feed it new flour and set it on the window so it can do whatever sourdough does.

Michelle did the same when we lived together, and I’m basically just copying her.

From there, I make a pancake mix with the grainy, seed-based flour we have here on Risda III and add “pollinator sweetener” to make my honey pancakes.

Mine are about as big as silver dollars and I stab a sharp eating stick through a stack before setting them on the tray.

It’s not a traditional way to eat pancakes, but they’re portable and sweet and everyone loves them.

I also make muffins because those are easy, and little fruit jam sandwiches made out of a seed bread.

I fry discs of the sweet potato-like root called tahaari and then make sandwiches with those for my alien customers who aren’t as fond of sugary snacks.

Risda III doesn’t have a bakery, so I’m the closest they’ve got.

Considering that I sell out quickly, I’d say it’s a success. I know one of the Port Custodians has a wife who’s an amazing baker, and I want to run her down in the street and pepper her with questions every time I see her, but that feels intrusive, so I just do my own thing.

If people don’t like my baking, they won’t buy it, right? With that pleased thought rolling in my head, I chop up a haunch of meat for Pluto and fill his bowl, then prep my cart for the morning rush.

It’s incredibly early and I fight back a yawn as I roll my little cart down Risda’s Main Street.

My clear windows are full of muffins. Little sandwiches line up in neat rows, and my pancake stacks cover the top of the cart, swaying as I push the thing down to the best vending spot.

I yawn again, because I’m not used to waking up so early, but that’s the curse of the baker, I suppose.

If this place had a coffeehouse, it’d make a killing.

Hmm. I eye the street. Maybe a coffeehouse is next on the agenda. Aliens only have that night tea crap, but I wonder if there’s a more suitable alternative.

The moment I park my cart, Pluto plops down onto the ground, rolling in the warm, dry dirt at my feet. Nearby, a woman hurries out of the boarding house, a bright smile on her face. “Yes! You’re back today!”

“I’m back every day, baby,” I tease. “This is my home now.”

She beams at me and then crouches in front of my cart, eyeing my baked goods.

Luckily, Pluto ignores her, so I don’t have to worry about him.

He only seems to panic when I panic, so his calm demeanor is a good sign.

The woman does a happy little jig in front of my cart.

“I’m so glad someone set up a bakery. I never have time to bake, and I don’t know what ingredients will make things taste like home. What are these little cakes?”

“Let me tell you what I have today,” I singsong as I point out the items on my cart. As I do, a cat alien strolling past pauses, sniffing the air, and then gets in line behind the human woman. He stares at Pluto but stays in line anyhow.

Today’s gonna be a good day for business, and the excitement of it makes my heart swell with delight.

I might not be a great baker, but I am an absolute champ at starting over.

I did once before when I was kidnapped by aliens, and I’m doing so now that I’m here on Risda, the farm planet that’s now my home.

I started over a third time when I got Pluto and realized a carinoux and livestock don’t mix.

It’s all fine. Adaptation is the name of the game.

And I can be adaptable.

RUTH-ANN

Someone’s been baking.

Even though Risda III is full of all kinds of random smells, I can pick out the faint scent of burnt bread like a bloodhound, and I wrinkle my nose. “There’s something burning.”

“Doesn’t most human cooking smell like that?” asks Dopekh.

“Absolutely not. This smells like burnt toast.” My nostrils flare as I turn my head, trying to see where in Port the scent is coming from.

It’s an old sort of charred smell, like it happened a few hours ago, but it’s bad enough that it’s lingering in the air.

With how clean the air is on Risda III, it’s easy to pick up new scents.

A lot of the time it just smells like fresh grass and the occasional whiff of cow dung, but today it smells like burnt flour and cow dung. Not my favorite combination.

My curiosity gets the better of me, though, and I veer off from the group.

“Hey,” Zaemen calls after me, an oversized box in his arms. “We’re supposed to be bringing supplies to the new cantina.”

“And I will,” I promise, even as I head down the street away from him. The box in my hands is much smaller and lightweight, so it’s easy to tote about. “I just want to see something first. It’s not like I can get lost.”

Risda’s settlement—unadventurously named “Port”—consists of one thoroughfare surrounded by a cluster of buildings that meet the needs of the settlers here.

Other than that, there’s a spaceport that’s being expanded, a lot of farms, and one gigantic estate off in the hills that belongs to the guy that owns this entire planet. I doubt I could get lost if I tried.

Port doesn’t have a lot of shopping or a nightlife.

It wasn’t considered, as the primary concern was giving humans a safe place to settle, since Earth is off-limits (and rumor has it, destroyed, but I suspect that’s just a rumor so we won’t ask to return).

But as more humans have arrived, there’s been a need for basic supplies and community services.

There’s a general store that sells basics and some locally made stuff.

There’s a boarding house that has rooms to rent, and some of the women that live in town offer services on the side, like tailoring.

There’s a bar that offers greasy alien food, which is why the crew decided to set up a “human” cantina here.

And apparently there is now a cookie stand at the end of the street.

I head over, the box of decor tucked under my arm.

My curiosity is getting the better of me.

When I was in high school, I spent summers working at a bakery and so I know my way around a baked good or two.

The cart has a cloth sign draped over the front of it and an umbrella shoved onto one side.

It looks very slapdash, but if the food is good, I’ll forgive it.

There’s a pretty woman about my age behind the cart.

She’s got dark, thick hair with a hint of a wave to it and expressive dark eyes.

Her hair is pulled into a messy bun atop her head, which only adds to how statuesque and shapely she looks despite the plain, serviceable clothing that all the colonists wear.

At her feet, a juvenile carinoux licks one of his many paws.

It’s a deceptively idle pose, but I’m not fooled.

I know how protective carinoux are and I know it’s watching me.

The woman with the cart gives me a brilliant, customer-service-like smile as I approach. “Hi there! Can I interest you in some delicious baked goods?”

I cross my arms over my chest and slowly walk around the cart, eyeing everything. There are flat, puddle-like cookies. The saddest-looking tiny pies with even sadder crusts. A set of discs on a stick that I don’t know what they’re supposed to be. Muffins that look like rocks.

“You made all this?” I ask.

Her sunny smile remains. “I did.”

“Wow.”

“What would you like?” she prompts, picking up a pair of tongs.

“None of it.”

Her face falls, the cheerful smile disappearing under something hard and defensive. “If you don’t have something nice to say, then go away.” At her side, the carinoux tenses, sensing her distress. She flicks the tongs at me in a shooing motion. “Let me spend my time with paying customers.”

“Whatever they’re paying, it’s too much,” I retort as I walk away.

The nerve of some people, making a quick buck off of the nostalgia of others.