Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

“I don’t know.” Heath turned the keys in the ignition, trying to get the engine to turn over, but nothing was happening. He pumped the gas pedal a couple of times and turned the key again. Nothing. “Personally, I think the more appropriate question is what did you do?”

She was getting damn tired of that question being leveled at her. Especially since Heath channeling Tre was a scary sight. “I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who bought a lemon.”

“She’s a cherry, not a lemon.”

“Seriously?” Lyric rolled her eyes at him. “Pop the hood. There must be a loose wire or something.”

“I will, as soon as I find the damn doohicky. It’s not where it’s supposed to be.” He felt around under the dash.

As he angled his body down to feel under the seat, his elbow brushed against the CD that was still resting at the mouth of the CD player. It slid back in, and as “Cherry Cherry” started to play from the beginning, the car roared to life.

They froze and looked at each other. “You don’t think …”

“Of course not. You’ve obviously been reading too much Stephen King. This is not Christine’s younger, sluttier, disco sister.” Lyric cocked her head to one side and shot him a look.

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Indignant now, she jabbed a finger at the eject button. Once again, the CD slid out. Seconds later, the car gave an angry groan, and with a very loud backfire, it died once again. She tapped the CD and it floated back into the player. The beginning of “Cherry Cherry” started again, and the engine roared to life. She ejected it and the car died. Okay. Demon possession—especially of inanimate objects—was impossible. Then again, most people believed that humans were the only intelligent beings in the universe … she rolled her eyes. On the whole, Homo sapiens wasn’t afflicted with broadmindedness. Gingerly, she touched the dash. Was this car the unholy vessel of some crazed Neil Diamond fan?

Oh my God. She sat back. She was obviously losing her mind.

“Okay, that’s it,” Heath exclaimed, pushing the CD in one more time. “If you want to get to San Angelo this year, forget God. Neil Diamond is our copilot.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Lyric peeled her legs from the seat and tucked them under her. Still, he had a point. If it meant getting to her daddy, she could handle four hours of “Cherry Cherry.” Maybe. As long as she didn’t spend too much time wondering about what it was that made these seats so damn sticky.

Heath rolled down the windows as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. They were between storm clouds. “No wonder the guy smoked so much pot. He had to be stoned to put up with this much Neil Diamond.”

Was it her imagination, or did the volume go up?

“Sorry.” Heath glanced around like he was looking for the spirit of Cherry Cherry. “Nothing personal.”

The car hiccupped, but the volume went back down. “Thanks, Cherry,” he said as he pulled out onto Highway 71.

“You’re not actually talking to the car, are you?” Lyric demanded. “It can’t hear you, you know.”

“You sure about that?” Heath asked with a raised brow. “Because I’m not.”

“You’re being absurd. There’s obviously a loose wire somewhere under the dash.” The car wasn’t possessed … okay, it might have a small crush on Neil Diamond.

“Hush,” Heath told her as the dome light flickered above their heads. “She didn’t mean it, Cherry.”

Lyric sighed disgustedly and started to formulate a snappy comeback, but she was distracted by the ringing of her phone. Knowing very well who it was, she glanced at the caller ID anyway. Saw Harmony’s name. And declined the call before her conscience could get the better of her.

Did she want to know what was going on with her father? Absolutely. Especially when the not knowing was a burning ache deep inside of her. But at the same time, what if Harmony was calling to tell her he hadn’t made it? That her daddy—their daddy—was dead? She wasn’t ready for that yet.

If she was too late—just the thought had her hands shaking—then she would find that out when she walked in the door. And if she wasn’t—please, God, don’t let her be too late—she would deal with it then, and not one second before.

As Heath pointed the car toward San Angelo, she tried to relax, but the music made it difficult. As did the way he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She knew he wanted her to look at him, but she refused to. After all, this was the man she had spent the last twelve years despising. The man who had cracked her heart wide open with a few careless words. She needed to remember that, remember what it felt like to be broken like that. Otherwise she was going to have another whole host of problems—problems that began and ended with the fact that even after everything that had passed between them, Heath Montgomery still made her heart go pitter-pat.

Which was ridiculous. Bizarre. Absolutely suicidal. Yes, he’d been totally charming from the second he lowered that paper on the airplane and realized the duct-taped idiot sitting next to him was her. Yes, he’d protected her from his crazed fans. Yes, he’d chewed her out of that damn dress. And yes, he’d even managed to secure this damn car, despite the run on rentals the Austin airport had experienced while they were dealing with her dress, and was now driving hundreds of miles out of his way to make sure she got home to her father safely.

But that wasn’t enough.

She couldn’t let it be enough, no matter how much her Southern manners were grating on her conscience. She wasn’t a masochist after all—duct-tape dresses notwithstanding—nor was she an idiot. Lowering her guard with Heath, letting him charm his way back into her good graces, would make her both. After all, the Deuce was known for his ability to maneuver even the most stalwart virgin out of her panties in less than five minutes. Since she wasn’t wearing any, it would take him no time flat. He’d never met a pair of breasts he didn’t like or a heart he couldn’t break. And after her latest love-life debacle with Rob the Knob, Lyric just didn’t have it in her to take the chance.

She quite simply didn’t have anything left to give.

Another arrow of pain licked through her, and once again she shoved it right back down where it had come from. She had enough to worry about right now without taking on anything extra, and Heath was definitely extra. He was like the gift-with-purchase lipstick at the Lancome counter—not what she’d originally gone in for, not even a color she’d wanted, yet somehow it fast became her favorite shade.