Once Upon a New Year's Eve

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Once Upon A New Year's Eve

  Note From The Author

  Other Books By Kait Nolan

  Sneak Peek of Once Upon An Heirloom

  Sneak Peek of To Get Me To You

  Once Upon A New Year’s Eve

  A Meet Cute Romance

  By Kait Nolan

  Once Upon A New Year’s Eve

  Written and published by Kait Nolan

  Copyright 2014 Kait Nolan

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following is a work of fiction. All people, places, and events are purely products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design by Kait Nolan

  Once Upon A New Year’s Eve

  Why didn’t I just stay home with the Ben and Jerry’s? Surely ringing in the New Year with a pint of What A Cluster is better than this.

  Gemma Forester picked her way across the gravel parking lot, praying she didn’t break an ankle, or worse, one of the precious Jimmy Choos she’d scrimped and saved and paid damn near retail for.

  I’m going to kill him, she thought. That’s simply all there is to it. Family immunity does not apply. Mom will have to understand.

  The bar door opened before she could reach for it. A pair of clearly drunk rednecks stumbled out, lips locked, along with a burst of truly craptastic country music. Whoever the bar had hired to play for the night was going to be lucky if they made it out without requiring intervention from Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliott.

  Gemma leapt out of the way before the couple could lurch into her. With the door held open, she watched them stagger to a beat up pick-up truck. The guy managed to get the passenger door open, while simultaneously removing his date’s bra from her tank top. Gemma couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or appalled. She went inside before her suspicion that they weren’t going to make it out of the parking lot was confirmed.

  The music didn’t stop and all attention didn’t focus on her, but she noted her fair share of raised eyebrows. She ignored the catcalls and wolf whistles.

  “Eat your heart out, boys,” she muttered, crossing to the bar.

  As a rule, she wasn’t opposed to honky tonks. If she was in the mood and dressed for one, she could totally go for some boot scootin’. But she’d been dressed for dinner at Chez Philippe, where she’d been forced to abandon her very pissed off date before the signature golden champagne raspberry sorbet was served. All because her stupid brother was drinking himself under the table over his latest lost love and making enough of an ass of himself that the bartender had liberated his phone and gone straight down his contact list trying to find someone to come pick him up.

  And of course nobody else was dumb enough to pick up tonight, she thought.

  It would’ve served him right if she’d left him to be arrested for public drunkenness. But there was always that niggling doubt that the bartender hadn’t been able to take his keys as easily as his phone, and what if he got behind the wheel…? So with profuse apologies, she’d walked out on her date—who she knew damned well was never going to call again—and taken a cab down here to Red’s Roadhouse.

  The bar was two-deep in patrons. She’d had half a dozen offers of drinks and a headache from the caterwauling they apparently called music by the time she fought her way through. Red himself—it had to be him—was manning the taps, a towel tucked into the waistband of his jeans. A giant of a man, with carrot-orange hair ringing a bald pate and an enormous fu manchu mustache, he automatically asked for her order without taking his eyes off the glasses he was filling.

  “I’ll take the drunk idiot you called me about and get him off your hands.”

  Red shifted his attention to Gemma. His bushy brows rose. “Well now, which one belongs to you?”

  “There’s more than one?” she asked.

  “Got three. One’s sleepin’ it off under the pool table over there,” he nodded to the left.

  Peering between the legs of the players, Gemma could just make out a figure curled into a fetal position. Too small to be Rick.

  “One’s workin’ on soberin’ up with some chili cheese fries down at the other end of the bar.”

  This guy was hunched over a plastic basket, shoveling in bar food as he swayed a little on the stool. Not Rick.

  “The other one’s up there.” Red jerked his chin toward the back of the room behind her.

  Turning, Gemma realized it wasn’t a live band that was playing so badly. It was a karaoke station set up on a little stage. Beneath the blinking party lights that were making her queasy without any alcohol, a lone performer clutched at the mic stand and wailed out a very explicit, very profane rendition of “Friends in Low Places”.

  “Oh, of course, that one’s my drunk idiot brother,” she said. Heaving a sigh, she turned back to Red. “Do you have his phone? His keys?”

  “Sure. One sec.”

  She waited, her headache ratcheting closer and closer to migraine territory at her brother’s toneless screeching, while Red retrieved his stuff.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  Gemma thumbed the phone on, verified it was Rick’s. The keys to his truck she recognized. “Thanks for not calling the cops,” she said.

  “He’s not fightin’ anybody. Just nursin’ a broken heart. Needs to sleep it off.”

  She was pretty sure he needed a good kick in the ass, and she’d be happy to provide it.

  Temper simmering, she pushed away from the bar. As if sensing her precarious mood, the crowd parted before her, giving her a free path to her brother. As she reached him, she did her best to buckle down fury over her wasted night. No need to let loose with the tongue lashing until he was sober enough to remember it. “That’s enough,” she said in a low voice, plucking the microphone from his hand.

  “But I’m not through yet,” Rick slurred.

  “Oh, I think you are. And if you leave now, maybe Mr. Brooks won’t sue you for the butchery you just made of his music.” Gemma laid the mic down and slipped her arm around Rick’s waist. “Time to go home.”

  “Can’t go home. No car,” he mumbled.

  “I’ve got your keys and your phone” she promised urging him off the stage.

  “Need my phone,” he said. “Need to call Linda back. She broke up with me, ya know.”

  “I heard that somewhere,” she said. He staggered on the single step and nearly took them both down. Good God, had he ever been this drunk before? Surely no woman was worth this.

  “Need to talk her out of it,” said Rick.

  “You need to get home and sleep it off,” said Gemma. “C’mon. Siblings don’t let siblings drink and dial.”

  ~*~

  Red’s was jumping. A wave of sound broke over Aaron as he stepped into the bar, reminding him why he’d been home alone playing Call of Duty instead of out celebrating. He’d ignored Rick’s call initially, assuming his buddy was intent on dragging him out as a last minute date for some friend of Linda’s. On a break between missions, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he’d checked his messages. If Rick was drunk enou
gh that the bartender had confiscated his phone and started looking for somebody to come ride herd on him, something had gone horribly wrong. Aaron suspected that meant Rick had been dumped. One night of getting shit-faced had always been his go-to coping mechanism for that eventuality in college. Not the kind of behavior one expected from an honors student or from the respected attorney he’d grown up to be, but everybody had their flaws. A friend in legitimate need could drag Aaron out where nothing else could.

  Too many damned people, Aaron thought, weaving his way toward the bar. As soon as he made it through, he set his curled fists on the bar, claiming a foot of space and struggling not to shove for more. He’d be out of here soon enough. Bodies jostled against his as he waited. And waited, scanning the crowd, looking for Rick. But there were too many faces, too little light.

  “What can I getcha?”

  “Somebody who works up here left me a voicemail from my buddy’s phone, looking for somebody to come get him.”

  The enormous bartender nodded down to one end of the bar. “That him?”

  Aaron followed his gaze, didn’t see Rick. “Nope.”

  “Must be the other one then. His sister’s already taking care of things.” He gestured with a glass.

  Aaron turned toward the back of the bar and stopped dead at first sight of the goddess with her arm around his friend in front the stage.

  Hooo-ly shit.

  Little Gemma Forester was all grown up.

  Aaron clearly remembered the teenage girl. The first time he’d met Gemma, he’d all but swallowed his tongue. It was so absolutely wrong for a fifteen-year-old girl to be that smoking hot, and even more wrong that he couldn’t seem to stop himself from noticing. She was fearless and brilliant, having no qualms about jumping into debate with her über-intellectual brother and no problems keeping up. That’d made it hard to remember the age gap, hard to remember that she was completely off-limits for reasons beyond being his best friend’s sister. How many high school sophomores could intelligently argue Kafka one minute and political theory as applied to the Empire in Star Wars the next? He’d liked her. She was unapologetically direct, without a bashful cell in her body. Unlike so many other girls, she maintained eye contact, pinning him with her icy gray gaze in a way that he found both unnerving and sexy as hell. Confidence always worked for him.

  She’d crushed on him as, he imagined, most little sisters did on their older brothers’ friends. Trying out her skill at flirtation on him. It had been sweet and flattering. And totally inappropriate.

  But this was no teenager. It was one thing to intellectually know that ten years had passed. It was quite another to see evidence of it. From the smooth, dark sweep of her hair, to the well-cut overcoat and fancy shoes that added to her already impressive height, every inch screamed polish and sophistication. And irritation. No wonder. She’d clearly been dragged from a date. Rick wrapped his arms around her, tipping his head against her shoulder and saying something Aaron couldn’t make out. Gemma staggered a couple of steps under his weight before finding her footing again.

  Aaron shoved away from the bar and went to offer his assistance. The entire population of occupants inside Red’s seemed determined to foil that plan. He got bumped, shoved, and even whirled into an impromptu two step by one ambitious blonde that wouldn’t take no for an answer. By the time he made it through the pack, Gemma was already heading for the door, Rick suspended between her and a beefy guy in boots and flannel.

  Aaron edged in front of them. “Hello Gemma.”

  ~*~

  “Hello Gemma.”

  She stopped mid-step and her focus narrowed on blue eyes she hadn’t seen in a decade but remembered like it was yesterday.

  In all the honky tonks, in all the towns, in all the South, you had to walk into this one.

  She actually felt all the maturity, all the layers of poise and composure she’d worked for slip away as nerves began to dance a rumba in her belly and her tongue tied itself in knots. Just like that, she was fifteen again, with a crush on her brother’s best friend. A crush that got totally shot down.

  Aaron Hendricks smiled at her, flashing that slightly crooked incisor and she felt a blast of very adult heat blow through her system, complicating the nerves with a healthy dose of pure chemistry that scrambled her brain. Oh. My. God.

  “Aaron,” she said. Her voice came out breathless. Mortification flared bright. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks and hoped the lousy lighting was low enough to hide it. The need to escape beat in her blood. No. No, she couldn’t deal with this, couldn’t deal with him.

  “What are you doing here?” she managed, tightening her grip on Rick, who was only semi-conscious by now.

  “I think Red went through Rick’s entire contact list. I got the voicemail, so I came to get him.”

  Because Aaron was still the dedicated, responsible friend in the bunch. She’d always liked that about him.

  “I’m taking him home,” she said. Under other circumstances, she might’ve cringed at the brusque, dismissive tone. She wasn’t rude, as a rule. But she didn’t trust herself to speak without stumbling over her own tongue.

  “I think that’s a good idea. Let me help you with that.”

  “No!” Gemma snapped. God, she didn’t want him helping. She wanted to get away as fast as humanly possible. “Jason and I have got him.”

  Jason, who’d readily offered his assistance when she’d nearly face-planted off the stage with her brother, eyed Aaron with suspicion. “This guy hassling you?”

  “No,” said Gemma, suddenly exhausted. The last thing she needed was some kind of testosterone showdown. “He’s fine. We’re fine. Let’s just get my brother outside.” She glanced over.

  Aaron was still there, still looking concerned, still looking delicious as ever with those broad shoulders her hands itched to stroke and that sensual mouth that had starred in countless sexy dreams.

  “Let’s go,” said Gemma, tugging their little trio toward the exit.

  Aaron skirted around them, moving to Jason and starting to reach for Rick. “Look, man, thanks for your help, but he’s my friend. Why don’t you let me—”

  “We’ve got this,” Gemma snarled, taking a firmer grip on her brother. “Thanks.”

  Aaron jolted back as if she’d slapped him, but Gemma was beyond caring. If she had her way, she’d never see him again, so it hardly mattered.

  Almost a year. A year back in Memphis and she’d manage to avoid running into him. She could make that happen again. It wasn’t like they ran in the same circles.

  “Who’s that?” mumbled Rick.

  “No one important,” she said softly. “C’mon. Just keep moving with us here.”

  Aaron fell back and let them pass. After the noisy, stuffy heat of the roadhouse, the cool air of the parking lot was a balm to Gemma’s aching head.

  “Rick, where did you park?”

  He struggled to lift his head, squinting at the rows of vehicles. “Somewhere.”

  “What’s he drive?” asked Jason.

  “Black F150. Supercab.”

  That didn’t narrow the field much. They both scanned the lot.

  “That it? Back left corner. Two tone with the tan on the bottom?”

  Gemma followed Jason’s gaze. “Yeah. Come on, big brother. Let’s get you home.”

  They skirted around the truck with steamed up windows, where the couple she’d seen on her arrival had disappeared. The light out here was lousy, not extending far beyond the pools cast by the floodlights mounted on the corner of the building. With a litany of silent prayers for her ankles and shoes, they made it to Rick’s truck.

  “I’ve got him,” said Jason. “You get the door open.”

  Relinquishing Rick, Gemma unlocked the truck, pulled open the passenger side door. The seat was covered with files, his briefcase, and the other detritus he hadn’t gotten around to stowing from the work days earlier in the week. Gemma shoved the lot of it into a banker’s box in the
floorboard and shifted the box into the backseat.

  “There. Okay, Rick. In you go.”

  “He’s out now.”

  Great. Gemma held in a string of curses. How the hell was she going to get him in the house? Maybe she’d just bring a blanket out to him and let him sleep it off in the truck.

  She crawled into the backseat herself and pulled as Jason pushed. Between the two of them, they managed to get Rick and all his appendages into the truck and buckled in.

  “Finally.” Gemma took the hand Jason offered and climbed out of the narrow backseat. She turned to shut the suicide door. “Thanks for your help.”

  When she turned back around, Jason was inches away, mouth curved into a smile that raised the hair on Gemma’s arms. “My pleasure,” he said, planting his arms on either side of her to cage her against the truck. Alarms began to blare in her head as the first wash of fear had her heart beginning to pound.

  “Um, look, Jason, I—”

  “Just thought you might want to show your appreciation. I had a few ideas.”

  Obviously, she thought. Screw the shoes. The stiletto heels were practically weaponized. If one broke when she brought it down on his instep, so be it. But even as Gemma lifted her foot, Jason pulled back.

  No, he was being pulled back.

  Aaron spun Jason neatly away and placed himself in front of her as a shield. And damn it if that didn’t just get her heart racing for a whole other reason.

  “I expect you do have a few ideas,” he said. “Let me go ahead and advise you that they’re bad ones. A gentleman doesn’t expect payment for helping a lady out. So why don’t you go on back to Red’s and find somebody more receptive to your advances.”

  For a moment, Gemma thought Jason was going to argue, but evidently he decided she wasn’t worth it. With a rude remark under his breath, he turned and headed back for the bar.

  Thank God.

  Aaron watched him go, shoulders rigid until the other man went inside. Then he turned to her, eyes still hot. “You okay?”