Hackles and a Honeymoon, page 1
part #1 of Cursed by Kosmos Series
HACKLES AND A HONEYMOON
Science Fiction Romance
by
Poppy Rhys
Copyright 2023 by Poppy Rhys
Proofread by Jessica Pennell
Cover Art: Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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 author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Hackles and a Honeymoon
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR NOTE
ALSO BY POPPY RHYS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WARNING
This story contains a non-human alien hero, mature content, graphic language, and possible triggers.
Standalone novel
1
Present Day...
Birdie
Just look at them, I thought as I watched the regency couple on my tablet screen. You know, from that popular show on the streaming service that rhymes with chex mix. I paid no mind to the chocolate croissant slowly melting in my hand.
They’re so in love.
Infuriating, panty incinerating, so romantic it hurts love.
It was all fake, scripted. These actors didn’t actually want to rip each other's waistcoats or stockings off but I fell for every second of it.
Damn me and my gullible heart.
Love wasn't real. Not the way mainstream media portrayed, anyway. It was manufactured by big corporations who wanted to capitalize on all the bleeding hearts.
Candy companies, greeting cards, jewelers, florists—hell, even ice cream brands, for when the unavoidable reality hammer slammed down on your capricious heart.
I knew watching these shows was pointless. A waste of my time. Really, I should’ve been cleaning the many piles of dishes and empty takeout boxes I’d let stack up for seven days during my detachment from the real world.
Bill and Ted, my twin chocolate, tri-color chihuahuas licked their chops while they stared at me.
Oh yeah, my croissant.
I propped the tablet on my throw pillow and licked the creamy chocolate off my palm and fingertips like I’d forgotten napkins and good manners existed. If Mr. B could see me through the screen now, he’d hike that wicked brow and walk his eyes over me, stunned at the horror of my boorish etiquette.
He’s a work of fiction, I told myself as I finished sucking my fingers and took a big bite of the croissant, working my tongue to make sure all the buttery dough got inside my mouth and not on my duvet that I’d dragged into the living room.
I wasn’t normally this messy. My life was planned out, pinned down, organized and color coded. I thrived on order. Every shoe had its place, every spice bottle had its label, and every calendar was meticulously sorted. In my world there was no such thing as wrinkles because if one dared to appear, I vanquished it with a hot iron.
At least, that's how my life used to be until it all went sideways a year ago.
What I was trying to say... I never used to do messy. And that's why my boss loved me.
Used to love me.
She had to still love me a tiny bit, right? All those years—eleven to be exact—that I'd gotten everything right. They had to count for something, didn't they?
A week ago I would've said yes but seven days was a long time. Six enormous weddings could happen in seven days, and probably had, if I remembered the schedule correctly.
I'd helped all six of those couples curate and book their perfect honeymoon. The ultimate destinations where they could start their new adventure together.
Even if half of those couples would likely end up divorced within ten years, they could at least have a fun memory to look back on. You know, when they were blindly optimistic and the sex was still spectacular.
What is that smell?
Anyway, I hadn’t heard anything from my boss, Gloria, since she leveled me with a glare and told me to cool my jets at home. That she’d call me—call me!
That was code for you’re fired.
At least, my brain kept insisting that’s what it meant.
Honestly, I probably should’ve used this week to find another steady job considering I had so many bills to pay and my side gigs were nearly nonexistent the past month.
Bobby let me pick up shifts on the barbecue food truck when he needed extra hands, but now that he got a girlfriend whose obsession with smokers matched his own, he rarely called.
And Ines, the dog groomer down the road, hadn't called either. I usually manned the bathing station on Saturday's, but business had slowed and she could tackle the station on her own with fewer appointments.
I'd made sure to keep my phone off silent so I wouldn't miss it if any of my bosses did ring me.
That in itself was unpleasant.
Aside from the countless warranty spam calls, my voicemail was full of credit card companies wanting to work out payment plans.
"Thanks, Derik," I said to the room. Ted immediately started growling at the utterance of my ex's name.
I scratched his little noggin. "You never liked him, did you?"
Ted sighed like the weight of the world was on his tiny shoulders.
I had Derik to thank for those nonstop calls from the credit card companies. During our two years together, he'd racked up an eye-watering amount of debt in my name.
Lesson learned. Painfully so.
The only upside was that he currently resided in a concrete prison cell for wire fraud. It pleased me to imagine him holding another inmate's pocket. Pretty boys didn't do well in prison, I'd heard.
But the downside? I was left paying for all the shit he'd hidden from me.
I couldn't think about that right now.
Realistically, what other agency would even hire me? I'd signed a contract with the company, and I’d broken the big rule.
Aside from never falling in love with the bride or the groom, there was one other important rule that could never be bent or broken at Aisle Be There.
Never interfere in the couple's affairs.
I was just a travel agent for ABT, but the rules still applied to me. The personal lives of our clients were none of our business. If it didn’t expressly involve the planning and execution of the wedding and honeymoon, we ignored it.
Easy peasy, right? I thought so too. Until last Sunday.
I sniffed the half eaten box of chow mein on my coffee table to see if that was causing the odor.
No, that isn't it.
I shoved the last bite of croissant into my trap and started to investigate the other bags and boxes of leftovers, surprised the dogs hadn't tried to pilfer any of it.
What had I been saying?
Right. So last Sunday everything had gone to plan. The venue was a beautiful conservatory building at the botanical gardens. The snow fell outside but the interior was full of lush, colorful plants and trickling water features. Every romantic light was lit, every purchased flower at peak bloom, and the live quartet expertly played their instruments.
Monica, the bride, was over the moon. This sweet twenty-five year old with apple cheeks, bright honey eyes, and the kindest personality. Every time she entered a room, I had to check to make sure forest animals and singing birds didn’t trail her.
You get the picture.
Normally I didn't attend weddings for clients. I just helped plan their honeymoon. But Monica had been so overjoyed about the unique activities I'd been able to secure for their trip that she insisted I attend the wedding. If not for her, then at least for the cake and open bar.
Try saying no to a Disney princess. It's horrible and I couldn't do it. Besides, I was on a budget and I wouldn't say no to free food and booze.
All that’s to say, Monica was the least bridezilla-bride I’d ever met. Which was undoubtedly part of the reason I’d lost my mind for those thirty seconds that landed me here.
One hour before the ceremony, I’d been asked by my best friend, and the planner overseeing the whole thing, Shelly, to search for the maid of honor who’d suddenly disappeared.
Can you see where I’m going with this?
After much searching, I’d found her.
I’d found her and the groom.
Together.
Pressed up against a bamboo railing at the back of the rainforest biome—and it wasn’t cacao pods he was looking for under her skirt.
I’d fled, undiscovered, repeating to myself the rules we operated by. It was none of
My gut said otherwise, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, and it only got worse, unbearable really, when she reappeared in the suite twenty minutes before Monica would be walking down the aisle.
I'd kept my lips shut, pretending, even to Shelly, that I hadn't found her.
That sweet bride beamed at her best friend, clearly relieved the one person she trusted the most—besides the man she was going to marry—hadn’t abandoned her.
My palms were sweaty and my heart was galloping as I witnessed that she-devil give the best pep talk I’d ever heard and reassure Monica she was going to live happily ever after with her soulmate—
I couldn’t take it!
The blatant betrayal plucked a nerve and my mouth and brain and heart didn’t cooperate. None were on the same page. I blurted, “She’s fucking your fiancé!”
Exactly those words. Nothing to soften the blow or approach it gently or to maybe use a nicer word than fucking.
Just straight-up sharp truth.
The world stopped spinning for about five seconds—five long, suffocating seconds—before Monica’s adorable smile faltered and she stared at her bestie, the hope in her eyes dying with each moment that ticked by without a fervent denial or any kind of excuse.
Instead, the maid of no honor—her new title—looked guiltier than a dog caught obliterating a brand new leather couch.
That’s when shit got real.
Imagine my surprise when the kindest bride I’d ever worked with shrieked like a banshee at a gladiator battle and wrapped her perfectly manicured hands around her bestie's throat and began choking her.
I was stunned. So stunned that I just stood there, watching Monica about to commit murder. On her wedding day. In the botanical gardens conservatory suite. With two hundred guests in the building.
It went further downhill when the groom burst into the room and tried to break it up. Monica let go of the purple-faced ex-bestie and started choking her fiancé.
Needless to say, the wedding was canceled, the cops were called, and at least three people got a lifetime ban from the botanical gardens.
It was a doozy.
A royal fuckup that probably cost me my job, yet I couldn’t bring myself to regret my verbal diarrhea. Maybe I’d never see Monica again, but I’d wonder about her, like every bride I’d known. Better she got out before she was legally bound to that lying cheat or, worse, had kids with him.
I groaned when I realized the odor I’d been searching for was coming from my armpits.
“My god,” I whispered as my eyes watered.
When’s the last time I showered?
I flopped back onto the couch and turned off my tablet. I couldn't, in good conscience, watch Mr. B stubbornly pine for his true love while I smelled like a bag of onions.
My phone rang.
I jumped and scrambled for it, startling Bill and Ted into a barking frenzy.
Mom calling...
“Shit," I swore, realizing what time it was. I was late for brunch with the family.
I quickly answered it. "Hey Mom, I'm—"
"Where are you?" Chatter in the background signaled the whole fam was already at Gram's house.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"If you don't, there might not be anything left." She conspiratorially whispered, "I saved some bacon for you, but I can't guarantee your cousin Margie won't find it. You know how she is when she's pregnant."
I listened to Mom rant for a few more seconds before hanging up, rummaging through my closet, and then hopping in the shower for a quick scrub.
If I thought I could get away with it, I would've stayed home to wallow in my self-pity a little longer.
The thing about big families? They're like bloodhounds.
And unless I wanted to hear about every family friend, local boutique, and business start-up hiring, I needed to act like my professional life wasn't falling apart.
My phone rang again.
Gloria calling...
My stomach immediately clenched and, for a split second, I debated not answering because living in my delusional world where I'd never gone to Monica's wedding sounded a hell of a lot better than facing my boss.
But, money.
I answered. “Hello?”
“Come to the office at two. We’ll talk.”
Talk? Aside from the obvious, what did that mean?
This was my boss, who I hadn't heard from in a whole week. I couldn't ask for clarification after what happened. If she said jump, I'd ask how high.
“Yes, of-of course,” I fumbled. “Two. I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
I was either about to be forgiven... or officially fired.
Shit.
2
BIRDIE
It was 1:35PM when I showed up at Aisle Be There’s office building.
Thankfully I'd been able to sneak out of family brunch without much pushback considering it was well past noon.
Listening to Gram give her unsolicited advice on my dating life, in front of the whole fam, was a torture I didn't mind escaping.
"You need to get over that crook and get back on the horse while you're still tight and perky, and stop wasting your youth!"
Such wise words.
I shook it off and focused. I couldn’t be late today, of all days. If I knew Gloria, and I did, there were certain things that got under her skin.
Poodles, garlicy food Monday through Friday, and people who arrived too early for meetings.
I’d vigorously brushed my teeth and gargled with apple cider vinegar for a good five minutes, so at least I had decent breath. However, twenty-five minutes ahead of time was too early.
"Damn," I swore under my breath and pressed the elevator button. I couldn't wait in the lobby. The creepy pizza guy who always read those lingerie magazines on his break was there.
He dredged up gross memories of my first job in a department store. The amount of weirdos who called pretending to be interested in lingerie for their girlfriend or wife, only to jerk off, was insane.
I wasn't kink shaming, but spend a few dollars and call a phone sex operator, buddy.
That was the shitty part about sharing a public lobby with eight other businesses. The pizzeria next door was a common lunch spot. I couldn't piss off the staff by complaining about their hired perv.
The elevator finally came and I decided I'd sneak into the warehouse to kill time.
It wasn’t really a warehouse, that’s just what we called it. The office consisted of three floors while the other businesses occupied the rest.
One floor, the warehouse, was dedicated solely to production items. Chairs, glassware, flatware, vases, silk flowers, so on and so forth. A place where the planners came to shop for their events and build samples for their clients.
That side of the business definitely wasn’t my wheelhouse.
As much as I could organize, I didn't have a personal style. I was more likely to pick up a pink flamingo handbag and pair it with green corduroy pants and yellow rain boots, if that gave any insight into my lack of panache.
“This might be the last time you see me," I announced to Shelly once I was in the warehouse. I plunked down in one of the chairs she’d pulled off the display shelf. Eight times out of ten I could usually find her there. “Just thought I should warn you.”
Shelly, the practical one in our friendship, didn’t even bat an eyelash, clearly used to my dramatic revelations. Instead, she continued to stroll down the glassware aisle, in the zone.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
I shook my head, fingering the silky golden tassel on the ornate chair I occupied. “She’s gonna fire me.”
“If she was going to fire you,” Shelly started, snatching a blue crystal goblet from the shelf to hold it up to the light, “she would’ve done it sooner.”
“Hello, have you met Gloria? Like, ever? She lives for the suspense.”
“You’re one of her best, if not the best, travel agent she has. She’s not firing you.”
Shelly hardly ever said nice things. She was the type of best friend who kicked me in the ass when I deserved it but was ready to remove her earrings and rearrange someone's facial structure if they talked shit about me.
“D’aww..." I pressed a hand to my chest. "That was unusually sweet...” I wrinkled my nose, instantly suspicious. “Are you getting sick? On drugs?” I gasped. “Did you get laid? Who is he? Do I know him? Is it Leslie from the dungeon?”
