by Logan Chance
NEVER KISS A STRANGER
Logan Chance
Copyright © 2020 by Logan Chance
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover Design: Kari March with Kari March Designs
Editing: PD
Formatting: Bearded Goat Books
To all of you standing together, staying apart. We can overcome.
Social distancing doesn’t mean we’re not in this together…
My life is basically a romantic comedy, minus the romance and me just laughing at my own jokes.
Contents
ALSO BY LOGAN CHANCE
***
Never Kiss A Stranger
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Cold Hearted Baller
Sneak Peek of Cold Hearted Bastard
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Logan Chance
ALSO BY LOGAN CHANCE
The Playboy Series
PLAYBOY
HEARTBREAKER
STUCK
LOVE DOCTOR
The Me Series
DATE ME
STUDY ME
SAVE ME
BREAK ME
Sexy Standalones
TAKEN
WE ALL FALL DOWN
THE NEWLYFEDS
GRAHAM
Steamy Duets
THE DECEIT DUET
THE BOSS DUET
The Cold Hearted Series
COLD HEARTED BALLER
COLD HEARTED BASTARD
Box Sets
A VERY MERRY ALPHA CHRISTMAS
ME: THE COMPLETE SERIES
FAKE IT BABY ONE MORE TIME
***
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Never Kiss A Stranger
Kiki
Ellis Atwood is the devil. Ok, maybe that’s too harsh. Ellis Atwood is ruining my life.
First, he demolishes a perfectly good wedding trellis.
Second, he destroys a gorgeous doggie wedding that I spent ages planning. (I kid you not.)
Third, he makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, and that is not ok. I prefer the cold and harsh way my fiancé makes me feel so much better. (wait, that didn’t come out right.)
Fourth, and there is a fourth, he gets me all wound up and flustered.
And last, when he unexpectedly kissed me it made me forget my own name, or the fact that I’m getting married...in a month.
Please someone help me out. I’m a mess.
Worst part is, Ellis isn’t the bad guy I first thought he was.
And being forced to spend time with him is making me realize that he needs my help more than anything.
So what’s a girl like me to do?
Ellis
I’m only in town long enough to figure out a plan with my brother on how to save our brewery from the awfulness that is my father. Oh and be in a wedding.
Where I may or may not be crushing a little too hard on the bride-to-be. (spoiler alert, I'm crushing hard.)
She’s really cute. Like seriously.
And she has the cutest job, she’s a dog wedding planner. (I kid you not.)
I can see why Henry loves her.
I can see why everyone loves her.
I can see why I’m falling for her.
I’m usually not a relationship-type guy. Call it picky or whatnot, but usually I get bored easily. So, my plan is simple. Spend as much time with Kiki (soon to be Faniki, I know) and hopefully get bored with her adorkable smile and sexy legs that go on for miles.
Then, I can save the brewery, be the best man of the wedding, and get my butt back to Chicago and away from the happy couple.
ONE
Kiki
Never trust a goat...
Have you ever had a goat walk all over your butt? I’m serious here. How am I supposed to stay in a zen state doing yoga as a rambunctious baby goat tramples his little hooves all over my body?
I’d never even heard of goat yoga until a few days ago when my best friend, Lola, told us about it. She’s a fitness blogger and these unusual workouts are her job to find and test out. Poppi and I are the ones she ropes into coming along so she can document the fun. ‘It’s all for the sake of a healthier lifestyle,’ she said as we entered the barn-like yoga studio earlier today.
That statement is always a bad omen. Like the time we went water walking. No, not like Jesus. This exercise involved being inserted into a human-sized hamster ball and rolled down the sandy shore into the water. Apparently, if you do it right, it’s great for the abs. If you do it wrong, like me, prepare to be rescued before you drift away.
Then, there was the Thug Workout debacle which took place outdoors with things like picnic tables and telephone poles as the workout equipment. I wasn’t happy about the splinters in my hand.
Lola’s followers love reading about this stuff. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be adventurous while working out, but there’s a fine line between adventure and just plain silly.
And maybe this is it.
I’m not complaining, because I’ve never been part of a yoga class where it hasn’t benefited me greatly, but I just don’t quite understand bending yourself into the shape of a pretzel and then thinking, ‘You know what this also needs? Goats. Lots of little goats jumping all over us.’
Yoga with Goats. Goga? Goga on. Super creative title, I know. You’re welcome.
“I’m pretty sure this goat just got to third base,” I whisper to Lola, trying to keep my yoga pose in check.
“Focus,” Lola whispers back, extending her arms forward on the blue mat. “Feel the serenity.”
I blow out a breath, as a sandpaper tongue licks my heel, and attempt to relax. This is supposed to be a serene space. Soft music. Sage walls. Even the yoga teacher is the epitome of tranquility. Her name is Flower, I kid you not, and she has her purple hair piled into a wicked knot on top of her head. Other yogis would be jealous.
“Close your eyes and work through the movements,” Flower purrs from the front of the class. “Now, move into the downward dog pose and don’t lose your goat.” Flower gives a sideways glance at Poppi whose goat took off long ago and is now nibbling on a potted plant on the opposite side of the room.
“I don’t think mine likes me,” Poppi says, tucking an escaped strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “And ya know, I’m not sure I mind.”
My goat ambles in front of me, and I stare at his angular face while his large brown eyes stare back. “Please stay with me, little guy,” I whisper as I move my body into a downward facing dog
position. He hops onto my back and treks up to balance perfectly on my ass. I’m just going to ignore the implication that my butt is big enough for him to do this and savor the fact this hasn’t been disastrous.
“Now move into crab pose,” Flower instructs. “Keep your goat steady.”
Sweat trickles down my forehead as I glance at the teacher who glides into the pose with ease, her goat looking like he’s riding out the perfect wave. “Are you going to get your goat?” I ask Poppi.
“Nah, he seems pretty happy over there. I think he’s divorced me.” She focuses her attention back on me, not even attempting to do anymore yoga. “Speaking of, how’s the fiancé?”
I try my best to keep my inner yogi at peace. “He’s perfect.”
That’s the word my mom keeps using in her relentless texts. She’s got me in some type of subliminal competition with my cousin Marsha.
“Marsha got engaged. When are you getting engaged?”
“Marsha just became Vice President of International Affairs at her firm. How’s the dog grooming going?”
Marsha. Marsha. Marsha. My name should’ve been Jan.
I still can’t believe I’m getting married, though. Me. Kiki Kingsley will soon be...ugh.
“Just the name,” I breathe out, keeping my pose and goat stable. “Kiki Faniki. It rhymes.”
“Kiki Faniki, the first woman on Mars,” Lola says. “See it sounds more prestigious when you put it doing something important.”
“But, I’ll never go to Mars,” I whisper back. I’m sure Marsha will, and Mom will be sure to imply I should’ve been an astronaut instead of opening a dog spa.
“You never know that,” she says, always optimistic.
“Don’t take his last name,” Poppi suggests.
I shake my head. “No, my mom would have a heart attack.” I close my eyes, trying to find my center of gravity as the baby goat I’ve named Peter tries his best to stay on but fails. He’s kind of cute with his triangular black beard. He almost…no, I push the thought away. I can’t even think it. But as he studies me with his big brown eyes, I can’t help thinking...
“Oh my god, my goat looks just like Henry,” I blurt out to my friends.
Lola laughs. “It’s just because you’re in love. You’re seeing him everywhere you look.”
“Be a rock for your goat,” Flower says, bending like Gumby into another impossible pose.
As we mimic Flower’s movements, I glance at the rock Henry proposed with. It all happened so fast.
He told me he’d never met anyone like me before, and that he knew it was sudden, but he couldn’t stand living another day without me being his wife.
He said, “We don’t know each other that well, but isn’t that the adventure of it all? Getting to know someone as you grow old together? Isn’t that what dreams are made of?”
No one had ever said anything like that to me before. I nearly died of swoon fever (It’s a real condition, look it up) when he put the two-carat princess cut ring on my finger and told me his five-year plan.
He said, “Marriage. Bang. Kids. Bang. Everything will fall into place with the perfect woman by my side. Then, I’ll make partner. Bang.’’
Me. The perfect woman.
We went home that night and made passionate love. Well, that’s what should have happened, but Henry had had a bit too much champagne celebrating and passed out before any penetration took place. But, it was still a perfect night.
“This goat is infatuated with my left boob,” Lola says, bringing me back to reality.
I pop open my eyes and try not to laugh as Lola attempts to keep a crab pose steady as her baby goat gnaws at her tank top. That’s much more action than I’m seeing from Henry. Said the men at his firm respected values so we should wait until we’re married. But, it’s ok. I kind of like the idea of no sex until marriage. It’s old-fashioned and romantic. Lola agrees it’s very romantic. Poppi, on the other hand, said she thought maybe Henry was gay.
He’s not gay.
He’s been around all my bases, many times. He just hasn’t slid into home yet.
“He thinks you’re his mother,” Poppi says, with a grin.
And then it’s like everything takes a turn for the worse. Poppi’s wandering goat tries to mount Flower, and it’s seriously like goats gone wild in here.
“Ok, I think we need to regroup,” Flower says.
I stop posing and Peter saunters close to nibble my palm. And then the unimaginable happens, he pretty much tries to eat my fingers and when I free my hand, my engagement ring stays behind.
Peter swallows it.
“No,” I squeal. “My goat ate my ring.”
I can’t believe this is happening. Panic ensues for the next five minutes as Flower checks inside his mouth to no avail. I think it goes without saying we don’t stay for the remainder of the class, but before we leave, I’m assured by the owner of the goats that we just have to wait a few days before I can get my ring back. Yes, you guessed it. I have to wait for a goat to poop out my engagement ring. I hope this isn’t an omen as to how my marriage will go.
“Well, I think we can cross goat yoga off the list,” I say to Lola as we leave the studio.
With sympathetic blue eyes, Lola loosens the bun atop her head and blonde hair falls down in waves. “I’m sorry about your ring.”
“It‘ll be ok,” I assure her, and myself. “This too shall pass.” Quite literally. “I have to go and run some errands for Georgia’s wedding tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted about Peter.”
We say our goodbyes and before I pull away, my phone buzzes with a text from Mom.
“Marsha and your Aunt Carol are coming by for lunch tomorrow. Can you make it? They’d love to see your beautiful ring.”
“Sorry,” I type back, sparing her the details of my missing ring. “I have a dog wedding tomorrow.”
“Dog wedding? You’re not grooming any more at Dog Spaw?”
For the record, I’m not just a dog groomer. Poppi and I opened the spa, and it caters to dogs and their humans too.
“Weddings are a new addition,” I reply. And pretty genius, if I do say so myself. It made sense that I give all these dog lovers something no one else can—dog weddings. I already pamper them at my doggy spa, so why not go a step further? Sounds crazy, but there’s a demand. It might be a little out there, but who am I to judge? I just sat through goat yoga.
“Speaking of weddings. Marsha’s having roaming peacocks.” She sends a picture of an elegant peacock standing next to a white tent. “Should you check into swans? Maybe penguins?”
She sends a rapid succession of pictures to bolster her suggestion.
“No, Mom.”
The wedding is already mapped out in my head. Every girl has fantasized about their dream wedding since they were young, and I am no exception to this rule. I want it to be on the beach. (You can’t be from Florida and not want a beach wedding.) The turtle sanctuary near Jupiter Beach, to be exact. There’s a tunnel that leads from the parking lot to the sand, and yes, I want to walk out of the tunnel like a princess walking down the aisle.
I shake my head at her competitiveness and head to Dave’s Hardware to pick up the trellis for tomorrow’s wedding.
This thing has been a nightmare to acquire. Who knew a white rose wrapped piece of wood would be so hard to find?
Dave’s Hardware is nearly empty when I enter the store. While I wait for the salesman to retrieve the trellis from the back, I pull out my phone, checking my to-do list to make sure everything is settled for the event.
Flowers? Check.
Officiant? Check.
Chairs for the wedding? Double check.
Everything is completed. I’m a natural at this.
“Hey, Kinky,” an incoming text from Henry reads. I cringe a little. We’re going to have to discuss this nickname he’s been using for me. For some reason, I’m not feeling this play on my name. Now, I feel I’ll have to live up to it, when we finally have sex, and
I’m so not kinky. “I was thinking…” he continues. “You know, Spring is my favorite season.” I actually didn’t know this. How can he not like Fall best? “Let’s do the wedding at the Carousel.”
I gasp. The Carousel is a swanky hotel and nowhere near the turtle sanctuary. “Hi,” I reply. “Well, that sounds lovely, but I was thinking about the beach.”
I add a smiley face to soften the blow.
My beach suggestion is swept away in a tsunami-like flood of reasons the Carousel is the best choice. Henry says he wants to get married soon, like April soon, and a beach wedding might just end in rain.
His logic doesn’t squash my disappointment.
He delivers the death blow. “Sand isn’t a pleasant tactile experience for me. I just can’t do the beach.”
Remember when I said I had my whole wedding planned out since I was a kid? Well, sometimes those ideas are childish fantasies. Sometimes, as an adult, you have to make compromises. And really, it’s no big deal if I don’t get what I spent my whole life dreaming about.
I guess.
No, it’s fine.
Since he’s picking the venue, Henry says he’ll leave it up to me to choose the colors. Anything I want. Except, blue. Or green. They remind him of the beach. The fantasy I envisioned of holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots withers and dies.
