Love at First Sighting

A chance at love might not be out of this world in the next romantic comedy from Los Angeles social media influencer El Martin seems to live the perfect aesthetic life. But what El wants more than anything is to find something Agent Carter Brody is trying his best to keep the Private Intelligence Sector afloat by dragging their hopelessly out-of-date office into this century, even though what he really wants to do is follow in his father’s footsteps identifying and hiding extraterrestrial sightings. He gets his chance after being assigned to El’s case and is stopped in his tracks not only by her ingenuity and confidence, but also by the unnerving coincidence of how her sighting looks eerily like what he saw right before a family tragedy. The deeper El and Carter fall into the mystery, the harder it is for them to ignore their growing chemistry, as their own alien feelings become dangerously terrestrial.

Autorentext

Mallory Marlowe is an author and video game writer living in Los Angeles, California. Seriously right-brained since childhood, her love of telling stories began with highly elaborate plots for her Barbie dolls and taking elementary school writing projects too seriously. She studied Writing for Film and TV at Emerson College. When she isn’t writing, she’s likely reading, stuck in LA traffic, or has fallen down a weird internet rabbit hole.

Zusammenfassung
A chance at love might not be out of this world in this astronomically charming romantic comedy from the USA Today bestselling author of Love and Other Conspiracies.

Los Angeles social media influencer El Martin seems to have a picture-perfect life. But what El wants more than anything is to find something real to make her heart race in a way it hasn’t in years. She doesn’t expect that feeling to come from capturing footage of an unidentified flying . . . thing, much less from the charming Man in Black who keeps following her around.

Agent Carter Brody is trying his best to keep the Private Intelligence Sector afloat by dragging their hopelessly out-of-date office into this century, even though what he really wants to do is follow in his father’s footsteps by identifying and hiding extraterrestrial sightings. He gets his chance after being assigned to El’s case and is stopped in his tracks not only by her ingenuity and confidence but also by an unnerving coincidence—her sighting looks eerily like what Carter himself saw right before a family tragedy.

The deeper El and Carter fall into the mystery, the harder it is for them to ignore their growing chemistry as their own alien feelings become dangerously terrestrial.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

El

Once you put something on the internet, you can never take it back.

Which is why I think extremely hard about how I’m going to push this sponsorship.

I prop my tripod on a flat patch of ground and take a few establishing shots to guarantee the best-lit angles, especially the ones that’ll hide the boob sweat currently dripping down the center of my chest. For an athleisure company that boasts extreme moisture-wicking fabric, it’s leaving me extremely moist.

The sun’s setting behind the Santa Monica Mountains, casting an orange-and-pink glow onto the ocean behind me. It matches my brand’s color palette—blue (my sports bra and yoga pants), orange and pink (the sky), and tan (of the spray-on variety). I’m in a race against time to get these pictures before I lose the sun. I step in front of the camera and shoot a few test shots. The lighting looks good, my skin’s glowing, and all that’s left is the hard part—making it look like I’m not trying too hard.

Of course, I have to try a little. No one climbs up to the top of a mountain at dusk, alone, with nothing but a tripod, camera, and water bottle, and does it effortlessly.

I hustle through a few poses.

A hand in my hair, laughing at an unhilarious patch of bramble—passable.

Taking a sip out of the trending, overpriced water bottle of the moment—but it blocks my face, and shows off mixed branding messages.

Facing the ocean, a hand on my hip, glancing back at the camera—this is weird and feels like a bad attempt at a Bond Girl pose.

I take one final shot, glancing down at my waistline like I’ve just slid into the best pair of buttery yoga pants, water bottle in my free hand—competing brand name turned around—and flash a smile to no one in particular. Bingo. This is the one. The right cocktail of casual and capitalism.

Anyone looking at the picture on Instagram would probably see a stunning model with sculpted curves, flawless makeup, and a sports bra that costs as much as a small mortgage. They’d see someone who has a perfect life. Yet, as I look at the smiling woman in the picture on the screen, all I see is the lifelessness in her eyes that no filter can fix. She’s got no reason to want for anything. This is the picture-perfect life she’s always wanted, but it’s actually woefully underdeveloped.

But for the sake of Spinx yoga pants, lifeless and plastic is more than good enough. In fact, it might be exactly what their brand is looking for. I transfer the photos from the DSLR to my phone and run a few tried-and-true filters over them to send to my marketing contact.

I draft up a caption—a Thoreau quote and something inspirational about how these yoga pants make me feel closer to nature—apply the proper spon-con labels and tags, and hit send. Now all I have to do is wait for their blessing and I’m free to post.

Even a few years ago, there was a thrill to every post, especially as I migrated from my child beauty pageant era to my lifestyle influencer era. Brand transitions are never easy, and the transition from the done-up “Toddler in Tiara” life my mom foisted upon me to “I’m My Own Woman, I Swear to God” felt near impossible sometimes. They’re even harder when you have to face them alone.

As I open up Instagram, my feed refreshes and a post from Alaka-Sam floats to the top.

In theory, nothing about a borderline-skeletal grown man in leather pants and a sapphire-sequined pirate shirt should make my stomach knot, but it does. He poses in his dressing room at Houdini House, a swanky and private Los Angeles magic-themed nightclub, fashioned like a knock-off Haunted Mansion. Los Angeles, Vegas, and children’s parties are possibly the only places where magicians are cool.

He’s dabbing moisturizer onto his alarmingly sharp cheekbones, and the caption reads, Magic is Skin Deep. Now, he’s got his own sponsorship with Epidermeé cosmetics and doesn’t need me. Of course, I can’t be too upset. While he might have been mostly interested in me for my sponsorship connections, I was mostly interested in him for his open invite to Houdini House. A few months ago, everyone and their mother wanted an in there, and I had to be the It Girl. But the second their marketing associate DMed him on Instagram, there was no need to keep dating me.

Needless to say, I was not devastated to be dumped by a man named Alaka-Sam, but the post feels like a particularly harsh blow to my ego nonetheless.

I do not hit like on his post.

Instead, I close up shop and begin the trek down to my car now that the sun has dipped behind the horizon.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve climbed way out of my way to take these pictures. I broached quite close to a rusty gate that might have said No Trespassing, but the faded letters look more like No ass at this point. But if I simply went to the populated overlook near the highway, I’d look like a tourist, and that&rs…