Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1) (3 page)

He snorted. “It looks like there’s enough there for half the plane.”

Lyric froze, vodka bottle halfway to her lips. She knew that voice. And not from a Hollywood movie or TV show.

No, she knew it because it was the last thing she’d heard before her heart had shattered like Humpty Dumpty—into so many pieces it could never be put back together again.

Heath Montgomery was sitting next to her.

Heath Montgomery, who with a flap and a fold had the newspaper tucked into the seat pocket in front of him.

Heath Ian Montgomery
, who was grinning at her like a fool.

First Rob, and then Daddy, and now
this
? Of all the airplanes in all the cities in all the world, what were the odds that the man who’d stolen her heart and her virginity—and then promptly forgotten she was alive—would be sitting next to her on the most poignant plane ride of her life? Like twenty-seven times ten to the ninth power. Maybe even thirty-one times ten to the—

She cut herself off. The actual odds
so
weren’t the point. The point was, Heath was here. Goddammit.

If she actually believed in fate, she might think that Mistress Kailana had given up on reading the stars and was now hurling them directly at her.

“Hello, Lyric,” Heath said as he reached into the basket for a bottle of Scotch. “Long time no see.”

The look of horror on Lyric’s face was all Wile E. Coyote right before the Road Runner blew him up. She yanked the basket away so fast it was amazing the force of it didn’t send her tumbling into the aisle. Which was something Heath would pay to see—with as tight as that duct tape was wrapped around her, he figured she’d end up flailing around on her back, her mighty fine legs waving in the air. Like a turtle that had been turned over. Or a Victoria’s Secret model whose eighty-pound wings had sent her toppling off the runway.

He’d seen both and had to admit, he much preferred the angel. Though Lyric and her—he glanced down at the long, tanned expanse of leg she was currently showing—mighty fine gams looked like they would put on a spectacle even Victoria’s Secret couldn’t match.

Then again, she kind of already had. It was funny, but he remembered her as skinny and nerdy with baggy clothes and no fashion sense. The fashion sense hadn’t changed, but everything else had filled out in the last twelve years, which the duct-tape mummy dress made abundantly clear.

Leave it to Lyric to make an entrance like that. Hollywood couldn’t think this shit up, and neither could any normal person. Trouble not only found her, it tackled her and hung on for dear life. Some people were naturally clumsy, but Lyric had taken that to a whole new level. If there was a way to fall in it, spill it, slip on it, or drop it, she’d find a way … or a way would find her.

On one occasion, in elementary school, when his fifth- and her fourth-grade classes had taken a joint field trip to the Archway cookie company, an entire vat of gingersnap cookie dough had managed to fall on her head. No one else had gotten so much as a molecule on them, but Lyric had been covered. Then in middle school, there’d been the petting zoo incident—a goat had eaten her dress while she was still wearing it.

He glanced over—now that he thought about it, her life seemed to be a series of wardrobe mishaps. Lucky him, today’s involved skintight duct tape.

It had taken every ounce of concentration he had not to lower the newspaper when she’d sat down and her dress had ripped so loudly. Only the fact that the guy one row up was wearing a Fort Worth Wranglers jersey—with Heath’s number on it, in fact—had kept that paper in place. After the news he’d gotten from his PT today, the last thing he wanted was to smile and sign autograph books—or, more likely, breasts, as “Sign My Tits” had become his unfortunate trademark and his fans’ battle cry after he’d spent a particularly long night at a gentlemen’s club his rookie year. The next day ESPN had dubbed him “the Deuce,” and he’d been signing chests ever since. Even after ten years in the NFL and two Super Bowl rings, he hadn’t been able to shake the name.

But once he’d realized it was Lyric next to him, talking to her became so much more important than hiding his anonymity. After all, the two of them had been driving each other crazy since kindergarten. Though, if he counted that unfortunate finger painting episode, it might have started as early as the Mother’s Day Out program at the First Baptist Church of San Angelo.

“Come on, Lyric,” he coaxed as he made another reach for one of the small bottles of Scotch. “You know you don’t like Johnnie Walker. You’re more a Mike’s Hard Lemonade girl.” If he remembered correctly, JW was more her twin, Harmony’s, drink. Back in the day the three of them had spent more than one night in high school getting drunk and talking about how they were going to take on the world. Right up until he’d slept with Harmony, and she’d ripped his heart out of his chest.

Lyric’s big, round blue eyes—which he’d noticed weren’t close to being the curviest thing about her—turned glacial. “Scotch isn’t the only thing on this plane I don’t like, but it looks like I’ll have to adapt.”

He was baffled by her hostility, especially considering they’d once been really good friends. But from the day Harmony had dumped him, Lyric had treated him like he had a social disease. He’d understood at the time—or at least, he’d told himself he had. Everyone knew girls stuck together over things like that. But twelve years was a long time to hold a grudge when he hadn’t actually done anything wrong.

She turned her back on him—or tried to, anyway. That duct-taped dress of hers made it almost impossible for her to move. Which was good for him, since it gave him a chance to grab for the Johnnie Walker. Painkillers be damned. If he was going to deal with her anger-management issues, he needed a drink.

He’d obviously underestimated Lyric’s scorn for him, however, because she jerked the basket away so fast that a bottle of Jim Beam shot out and beaned the guy across the aisle right in the temple. The bottle bounced off the guy’s head, hit his knee, and tumbled to the floor.

The three of them turned as one to watch as it rolled down the aisle into coach.

After it disappeared, Lyric’s latest victim turned in their direction. With a sinking heart, Heath watched as his eyes widened with recognition. “Hey, aren’t you—” The guy didn’t bother finishing the sentence. Instead, he leaped the three feet across the aisle. “I’m a huge fan.”

With a long, put-upon sigh, Heath sat forward and accepted his fate. This was exactly what he’d been dreading all along, though he’d been certain the first shot would have come from Wranglers Jersey in front of him—hence the newspaper camouflage. Pulling a napkin out of the basket, he grabbed a pen out of his pocket and scrawled his signature across the American Airlines logo. Then he handed it to the guy with a smile that was more fake than their flight attendant’s tan. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do. Fame came at a price, and that one bottle of Jim Beam was going to end up costing him eight hours of peace and quiet.

“I’m sorry. Can we talk later? Right now I’m catching up with an old friend.”

At the “old friend,” Lyric’s eyes cut over to him.

The guy took the napkin, wiped his hands with it, and tossed it on the floor behind him. “Dr. Wright, I saw your last video podcast on the Crab Nebula—it was amazing.” There was so much reverence in the guy’s voice, he might have been talking to Jesus or Joe Namath.

Lyric straightened her shoulders, smoothed her hair down, and when she smiled, there was nothing fake about it. “Thanks. Next week, I’m doing quasar output and the effects on dark matter.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t wait!” His eyes practically glowed with the fervor of the zealot.

All around them, heads were turning to check out the commotion. Terrified of Wranglers Jersey one row ahead, Heath tried to slink down to hide behind the chair in front of him. But at six foot five and two forty, wiggle room didn’t exist. Add in the broken knee and the reading light shining down like a spotlight, and he might as well have been the featured performer at the Super Bowl halftime show.

Lyric was oblivious to his discomfort. She and Science Geek had moved on to a spirited discussion about the upcoming (and obviously very exciting)
Firefly
cast reunion scheduled for the next San Diego Comic-Con.

Science Geek got so enthusiastic that his jacket fell open, revealing a T-shirt that read, “Beam Me Up, Scottie. There’s no intelligent life down here.”

Heath barely resisted commenting that she’d already Jim Beamed him upside the head, but he doubted they’d get it. With all the science speak flying around, however, he was considering Jim Beaming himself—right between the eyes.

Science Geek’s gaze locked on to Lyric’s cleavage. “That dress. Is that the new light-refracting material they were talking about on the SETI website?”

He reached out and ran a fingertip along the top edge of her dress, lingering for a second in the shallow between her breasts.

Heath couldn’t take it anymore. Shooting Science Geek an I’m-going-to-beat-the-shit-out-of-you glare, he yanked the blanket out of Lyric’s cleavage and tucked it under her chin and around her shoulders. It might have been twelve years and she might hate him, but he still thought of her as the little girl who had brought him a Hostess CupCake with a candle on it for his tenth birthday. She’d been the only one to remember that birthday
and
the ones that came after it. Heath would be damned if some Klingon tried to handle her quasars … not on his watch.

She turned to him, bemused, but must have decided he wanted an introduction, because she suddenly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce you to my seatmate. This is Heath Montgomery.” Unfortunately, she used her professional lecturer tone and her voice echoed through the dark cavern of the plane.

The second his name dropped from her lips, the seat in front of him rattled like an F5 tornado. Wranglers Jersey’s head popped up, and then it was on. Heath dove for the newspaper, but he wasn’t fast enough on the draw, and the guy’s eyes widened as their gazes connected.

“Holy shit.” His voice echoed down the aisle. “Ho-ly shit. You’re Heath fucking Montgomery. Man, you were great in the Super Bowl last year.”

Before Heath could answer, someone else stuck their head past the curtain that separated first class from coach. “Montgomery. Dude, how’s the knee? That was a brutal hit.”

From there, it was only a few seconds before he had a fan club of five or six men gathered in the aisle around them, all vying for his attention. On the plus side, Science Geek had been trampled in the rush, which meant Lyric’s body was safe. Too bad he couldn’t say the same about his own, but he was familiar with taking one for the team.

Wranglers Jersey yelled to his girlfriend, “Tiffany, get up here. You’ve got to meet the Deuce.” He turned back to Heath. “She’s almost as big a fan as I am. In fact, we met at LSU in the kinesiology building, right in front of the life-size portrait they have of you holding the Heisman. It was fate.”

The next thing Heath knew, a tiny brunette popped over the top of the seat, Sharpie in hand. Before he could so much as say hello, she’d ripped open her shirt and shoved her perfect but obviously fake C cups in his face. They were pretty, but he had to admit, he preferred Lyric’s real double Ds—even encased in duct tape.

“Sign my chest,” she demanded. “Honey, take a picture and I’ll get it inked for your birthday.”

Wranglers Jersey whipped out his cell phone before wiping a tear from his eye. “Baby, I love you.” But then he glanced around and realized all the men in the general vicinity were now staring at his girlfriend’s chest. Reaching over the seat, he grabbed for the blanket Heath had just wrapped around Lyric. “Can I borrow this?”

Heath’s hand shot out, knocked Wranglers Jersey’s hand away. “Dude, show some respect. Don’t touch her.”

Guarding Lyric’s cleavage was turning into a full-time job.

The guy blanched, held up both his hands in a sign of surrender. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to disrespect your girl.”

You would think after ten years as a pro quarterback, he would be used to the crazies, but the truth was, they still threw him for a loop. He heard a snort come from Lyric’s general direction, and worried she was upset. But when he glanced at her, she was laughing her ass off—enjoying the hell out of his discomfort. Just like a woman.

Trapped now—as much by the crush of expectations as by the small crowd that had gathered around him—he gingerly reached for the Sharpie and started to sign right below the woman’s chin.

Lyric stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, no, no. You don’t want to sign there. The bones are much too close to the surface and it will hurt when she gets it tattooed. Plus, she might not want it showing at her next job interview.” She repositioned his hand directly over the fullest part of the woman’s breast. “Sign here, where it’s fleshier. But be careful of the aureoles. She might want to breast-feed someday.”

Gritting his teeth, he quickly scrawled his name across her chest, avoiding the nipples as Lyric had suggested. This wasn’t the first rack he’d signed in his career, but it was by far the most uncomfortable. Something about Lyric watching and offering suggestions threw him off his game.

Once he’d given one autograph, it was open season. People handed him napkins, scraps of paper, T-shirts, even a diaper bag. He was on signature number eight when the flight attendant stomped down the aisle and muscled his way through the crowd. Hands on hips and one eyebrow raised, he glared down at Lyric. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“Me?” Lyric pressed her hands against her chest in mock innocence. “I haven’t done anything. It’s Mr. Football over here causing all the commotion—signing boobs and posing for pictures.”

The flight attendant sighed heavily, then, with all the self-importance of a dictator commanding his legions, pulled himself up to his full height of five foot six inches. Turning to Wranglers jersey, he ordered, “Stop touching those. I don’t care if they’re signed by Versace himself.”