Countdown To A Kiss (A New Year's Eve Anthology) Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Johnny Wilder found it damn near impossible not to think about Tess Devine on New Year’s Eve.

  He supposed it was to be expected. After all, she’d pretty much fubarred every one of the last ten of them for him. Even the ones when they hadn’t been on the same continent.

  He hadn’t seen her in four years—three of which had been spent nearly getting his ass blown up in Iraq. And the fourth he’d been safely down at NASA. Not hiding so much as…avoiding.

  So here he sat, nursing an IPA in a tall, brown bottle and watching whatever was on ESPN, trying to forget it was New Year’s Eve. Trying to forget the Curse of Tess Devine. He was determined that his date Laney would break the tradition tonight, because his track record was pathetic.

  And the pisser of it was every damn time he heard “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”—which seemed to be the frigging favorite song of every female he’d ever known, not to mention on the soundtrack at every damned store or restaurant he stepped foot in—all he could think of was Tess. Because, whether he’d intended it or not, she was his New Year’s Eve tradition.

  The sharp click of heels caught his attention as his mom walked in from the garage via the kitchen.

  “Back already?” he asked, craning to look behind him as she came into the living room.

  “It’s so cold out there,” Mom said, taking off a thick scarf and gloves. “I can’t remember the last time it was this cold in Henderson. They’re even calling for snow tonight—which I don’t believe for a minute.”

  “So how’s Rhapsody today? Did she spit up? Fart? Fill her diaper?” He grinned up at her as she stopped and gave his too-long hair an affectionate yank.

  “My only grandchild is a brilliant baby. She does everything right even though she’s only three weeks old.”

  At twenty-seven, he was a commercial pilot, had completed two tours in Iraq—and seen things he needed to forget—plus knew how to navigate a space shuttle…yet his mom’s affectionate touch made him feel all of ten again. Warm and comfortable. Come to think of it, it was probably the same for her. She hadn’t seen enough of her only son for four years—a fact which she constantly reminded him.

  “Not sure how so much brilliance can happen with a name like Rhapsody.” Wilder laughed when his mom winced. He still couldn’t believe Karen and Mark had named their daughter after a defunct online music service, and he had a feeling his mom felt the same way—though she’d sure as hell never admit it.

  She knuckled down on his head, mussing harder, then plopped on the couch next to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to get this mop cut before the soirée tonight? I’m sure Birdie could still fit you in. In fact, I’ll make sure of it.” She pulled out her cell phone.

  “I had it buzzed for four years. I like it longer. All the better for some hot chick to run her fingers through,” he teased, lifting his beer to take a drink.

  She rolled her eyes and filched the beer from his fingers. “Laney Boudreau better behave with my only son tonight,” she warned, then took a sip.

  “Rick Stanick better behave with my only mom tonight,” he retorted.

  His parents had divorced five years ago—just before he joined the Air Force. And then he had to go and get shipped to Iraq a year later and give his mom something else to stress about. Great job, Wilder.

  Which was the only reason he was spending the holidays back here in Henderson—to make up for that.

  “Oh, you’ll never guess who I ran into at Birdie’s today,” she said, handing him back the beer. “By the way, ugh.” She nodded at the bottle. “Too bitter for me.”

  “I’m sure Rick will bring you a nice bottle of cabernet tonight,” he teased.

  “He does have excellent taste in wine. And women. Speaking of which, John—you didn’t even say anything about my hair. What do you think?”

  “Huh? Oh, it looks great, Mom.” She’d left four hours ago, and as far as he could tell, nothing had changed. “The color’s really nice,” he said, picking one of the two options he knew was available—color or length. He figured he had a fifty/fifty chance.

  “You did notice,” she said with a surprised smile. “I guess they taught you something in the service. Well, enjoy your—whatever you’re watching. I’ve got to start getting ready. Takes me nearly ten minutes just to squeeze into my Spanx, plus all the other stuff we women have to do.”

  He had no idea what spanks was—but it sounded like something he didn’t want to know. The idea of his mom dating (and presumably having sex) was still a little awkward, and spanks sounded vaguely dirty. Definitely something he didn’t want to know about. “Okay.”

  She started to leave then stopped. “Oh yes, I didn’t tell you who I ran into at the salon. Tess Devine. Apparently she’s in town after all. All the ladies at Birdie’s were a-twitter—ha!” —she poked him— “because she came in to show them some wigs and hairpieces they’re using in Wicked. Did you know they have over a hundred and fifty of them in all?”

  But he wasn’t listening anymore. He’d stopped after she’s in town after all.

  No frigging way.

  How the hell did that happen?

  “Rick should be here in about two hours. Remember your Southern manners, Johnny-boy,” she said, and laid a loud kiss on his cheek. “And if you leave before I see you, make sure you save a dance for me tonight.”

  “I will,” he said weakly, wondering how much of a chance he’d have of sweet-talking Laney into staying home in the hot tub instead of going to the Devine-Kampmueller shindig. It’d be a lot more fun trying to peel her out of a red dress than making small talk with Tess Devine and her asshat of a husband.

  Probably a snowball’s chance in hell. The soirée, as his mom called it, was the biggest to-do in Henderson, and everyone who was in town attended. It was a damned tradition. Which was why he’d made certain Tess Devine was still doing her stint in Wicked on Broadway before deciding to come home.

  Or so he thought.

  He lifted the beer and drank. What the hell was wrong with him? She was a girl he’d hung out with in high school. But he’d never even officially gone out with her, let alone slept with her.

  He’d only kissed her once. And that was under duress. Why the hell was he letting her fubar his holiday—still—after a decade?

  Christ. Wilder scrubbed a hand over his face, disgusted with himself and the whole situation.

  He’d been in a damned war zone for four years and hadn’t been this…whatever. Riled up. Freaked out. Unsettled.

  But Tess Devine could do that to a guy, with her bossy attitude and deep chocolate eyes that just seemed to suck you down in. They could go from flashing anger to teasing to sultry in ten seconds flat. A guy didn’t have a frigging chance when he took that into account along with the way she looked—all the right curves and thick honey blonde hair—plus that damned freckle on the sweet spot next to the hollow of her throat.

  He might have made it home from Iraq in one piece—or mostly—but he sure as shit had a bad luck streak when it came to New Year’s Eve.

  Sonofabitch.

 

  Chapter Three

  Coming home was always one of Tess’s favorite things, but coming home at the holidays was even better. It was home, it was family, it was familiar…it was comfort.