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A STRANGER'S KISS

A SENSUAL NOVELLA
Contemporary Romance - Drama, Sizzling; 22K
Length: 100 pages (estimated, based on page size of paperback)

$2.99 kindle / $6.99 paperback


When two lonely strangers meet in a bar on Valentine’s Day, they take passionate solace in each other’s arms, little knowing that they will soon meet again as business associates.

Karen Samuels has sworn off emotionally unavailable men, deciding her time will be much better spent building her fledgling graphic art company.

David Anderson, a widower of seven months is still deep in mourning and battling survivor’s guilt. Determined to open the restaurant that had been his wife’s dream, and on the recommendation of his best friend, he hires a graphic artist, sight unseen, to create the perfect logo.

SHE knows his heart belongs to another.

HE knows he could give her his heart, but he doesn’t deserve to be happy again.

THEY know that falling in love will only bring more agony and despair.

But, FATE knows otherwise.

CHAPTER ONE
The Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre

The muffled bu-bump of what sounded like a door shutting jolted Karen from the black void of sleep and her eyes snapped open. For several seconds confusion reigned until her mind registered the familiar: the white wicker chair with pink and aqua floral print cushion in the corner, her latest bargain bookstore purchases stacked on the floor next to it, her stuffed-full-with-clothes-and-shoes closet with its door swung wide.

She blinked several times and rolled onto her back allowing her head to continue the arc all the way through, hoping the light streaming through the old-fashioned sheers on her window would wake her more fully. Her brain sloshed in her cranium and the dull ache spiked into a sharp throbbing pain. As she winced, her gaze fell to the pillow next to hers and landed on an unexpected dent, the exact shape and size of another’s head. In spite of her pounding brain, she jackknifed into a sitting position and the chill air of the room pebbled her naked flesh. Her heart thudded against her ribs as trepidation snaked through her body and mind. “Whose head? How? When?”

* * *

David scraped his hand over the right side of his face and jaw, massaging the tense, sore muscles underneath his stubbled skin at the same time he turned the steering wheel and made the right turn onto the residential street that housed the townhouse he’d just fled from in agitation and shame. His eyes were dry from lack of sleep and lack of non-alcoholic liquid nourishment. He’d awakened in a stranger’s bed, the reminder that they’d done more than sleep hanging damp and limp from the end of his spent dick. He’d had sex with a stranger. His stomach churned in revolt. He still couldn’t believe it. An ache of despair formed in his chest. His wife was probably rolling in her grave.

* * *

Karen forced her limbs to move, forced her feet onto the floor. The jostling made her head pound even more, but she ignored the ache, her only intent to find out if he’d at least used protection. With one hand over her forehead, she leaned forward and, with the other, grabbed the edge of the waste basket that rested on the floor between her nightstand and her bed. Peering inside, and swallowing back the wave of nausea that slammed into her gut, she took her first real breath when she spied the condom lying inside on top of several wadded up facial tissues. All right. That’s some good news, at least.

Her next move was into the bathroom to take some aspirin. After swallowing them down with a glassful of water, she stumbled into her kitchen and made a pot of coffee. As it brewed, she leaned against the white ceramic tile counter top and chewed on a hangnail. Who the hell had she slept with?

The coffee made burbling sounds as it got to the end of its brew cycle and she grabbed her favorite mug from its perch on the mug tree, the one that read, “Graphic Artists do it with Stylus” in big red calligraphy across a white surface, and took the two steps across the cool slate blue tile floor to stand in tense anticipation of that final drip that would signal it was time to pour her first mugful.

A few minutes later, her head beginning to clear, not only from the analgesic effect the aspirin played on her headache, but also from the stimulating effect of the imbibed caffeine on her dulled brain synapses, Karen set her thoughts back on the night before. She’d been dressed and ready for a late Valentine’s Day dinner with Mark, her now ex-boyfriend, when he’d called and broken the date—broken up with her, in fact. Over the phone. He’d told her he needed more space, that she was becoming too clingy. She’d told him she wasn’t clingy, he was emotionally unavailable. He’d hung up on her. She’d cried a while, berated herself even longer, berated him even longer still, until she’d finally made a pact with herself: No more men who were commitmentphobes. She was 29, almost 30 this May, and she wanted a husband. Clearly, she’d been going about it all wrong, been too liberal with her attention, free with her affections, too willing to bend. So, she’d vowed not to sleep with another man until she was sure of his intentions, was sure that his goal for their relationship was on path with her own.

Well, clearly, she’d fallen off the wagon. And how. And what was worse, she’d reverted to a much earlier version of herself. The one that she’d been in high school. The one that slept with anyone who looked at her twice. The one that got drunk and didn’t remember who she’d given herself to the night before. The one that she’d pushed down into a dark hole, piled stones on, and sworn never to allow to resurface again. Only a person with low self-esteem drank themselves into a stupor and slept with men indiscriminately. She refused to be that person again. She wouldn’t be that person again.

Except. Who was the guy? She began from the beginning, retracing her movements the night before, using her fingers to count down the actions. She’d fought with Mark, she’d made the vow, she’d gone to the cabinet over the sink to pull down the bottle of tequila someone had left at her house over Christmas. She’d been disappointed when she discovered Mark had drunk the last of it. She’d decided to go out for another bottle, but had been stymied in her efforts when she had driven up to the storefront and realized it was closed. She’d spied a bar across the street, made a quick decision, and pulled into its parking lot. She’d gone in, ordered a shot of tequila and drank it in one swallow. Then she’d ordered another one. And then another one. After that, things began to get hazy.

She dropped her hands into her lap and rested her head against the back of the sofa. There was some dancing to the jukebox, she remembered that. A brown longneck bottle of beer. Yes. She’d drunk from someone’s bottle. She…she—Karen massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers and tried to focus on the vague images floating around in her brain—She… and…someone…laughing…they were in a car…she was in the passenger seat. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on the other person. A man. Dark hair. His face, his face! Karen, look at his face! Argh! It was no use. She couldn’t bring the image forward. Wait a second. The passenger seat?

She sprang up. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. He’d driven her home. Her throat worked as she swallowed back the alarm. Which meant her car was still at the bar. Fearing she was right, but praying she was wrong, she flew to her front alcove window, kneeled on the seat, and pressed her palms against the cool, clear pane. Empty. Her parking space was empty. No, no, no! She swung around and hurried into her bedroom to dress. Why me? Why always me?

* * *

CHAPTER TWO
The Day The Earth Stood Still

David was late showing up for work. Of course, at this point, he was the only employee on the schedule of his soon-to-be opened Texas style grill, Cindy Lou’s BBQ, so he had no one waiting for his arrival. Still. There was a lot to get done before his meeting with the graphic artist his buddy, and soon to be barbecue chef, Jay, had suggested he hire to do his logo, menu and possibly even a few ad designs.

He’d only had time to shave, shower, and change clothes before coming here. Hell, he hadn’t even given himself the luxury of a cup of coffee, and now his system was screaming for its daily fix. An unexpected yawn shuddered through his system as he maneuvered his way toward the kitchen through the clear plastic that the construction workers had hung from the rafters. The new commercial grade appliances had been put in the day before and the electrical wiring was in, connected and working in the restaurant as well, so he set his attention on brewing himself some joe. He was all set to grab the carafe, when his gaze fell on the photo of Cindy, beaming her lovely smile at him as she sat in one of the swings at Memorial Park last summer, only a week before the night. He’d left the photo sitting on the counter the day before. Valentine’s Day. The day their baby had been due. The day he’d commemorated by getting drunk and cheating on his wife with a stranger he’d picked up in a bar.

“How could this happen? We’ve been so careful! I can’t believe this Cindy—we can not afford a baby right now!” Guilt, his ever-present, old friend twisted the knife that had taken up residence in his heart these past months and his breath caught. His throat worked. His eyes squeezed shut. His hand shook. He callapsed against the counter with his head hanging limp between his shoulders. The back of his fingers grazed the edge of the photo frame and he pushed it away. Get a grip on yourself, man. You can’t let the graphic artist see you like this. He forced air into his lungs several times, stood up, reached for the coffee carafe again, and manfully went about the morning ritual, keeping his eyes focused on his rote activities and away from the photo, away from his guilt.

* * *

Karen placed the case that held her laptop on the hood of her car and took a moment to straighten her suit jacket and skirt, to tuck her blouse below the waistband more snugly. She did a quick check of her makeup and hair using the driver’s side mirror attached to her car door. Deciding she looked professional, that the eye drops she’d been copiously using had done the trick and brightened and whitened her once red eyes, she grabbed up her tool of the trade once more and marched toward the glass doors of the establishment she’d, hopefully, be creating artwork for later today.

She forced a smile onto her face, forced the muscles in her jaw and around her eyes to relax, and prayed like hell that she was putting off confident vibes. So, her day had started off badly. She would recover. After all, it hadn’t taken as long, nor had it been as arduous a task as she’d first believed, to retrieve her car from the parking lot of what she now knew to be called, “Jumpin’ Jilly’s Country Canteen”. Luckily, the cab came right away to pick her up and her car had not been vandalized—or worse--stolen, as she’d feared.

A flash memory of a hot, humid mouth on her breast caught her off guard and her heart leapt into her throat. She had to stop walking for a moment to catch her breath. She felt a sudden dampness under her arms, and even more disturbing, between her thighs. Okay, so the anonymous one-night-stand was still bothering her a little. She’d feel much better about the whole encounter if she could just remember his face, remember his name. With effort, she shook the dour feelings off, shoved the memories back into the murky background, and took a decisive step forward. Two more steps and she was at the glass doors. Okay, this is it. She beamed a smile, swung the door wide, and took a step inside the dim restaurant. “Hello? Anyone here? Mr. Anderson?”