Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

Her mother rose with regal superiority. In a swirl of black silk and menacing steps, she crossed the room. All that was missing was the James Earl Jones voice and the black mask and she would be Darth Vader’s evil older sister.

“You’re finally here.” Her eyes roamed down Lyric’s body. “I’m sure there’s a story that will explain this. But now is not the time.”

No “I’m so happy to see you” or “thank you for moving heaven and earth to get here.” Then again, what had Lyric expected—Modern Family meets The Brady Bunch? It was a ridiculous thought, considering that growing up, her life had been the Junior League version of Survivor and she’d been voted off the island long ago.

Despite that, or maybe because of it, she couldn’t help rattling her mother’s cage. “What … no hug?”

“I don’t want to wrinkle your …” Her mother waggled her index finger up and down Lyric’s figure, and if it was possible, her eyes narrowed even more. It was amazing she could see out of the tiny slits. “Are you pregnant?”

Lyric glanced down at the compression tee that hugged her chest and then fell loosely down to her hips. It did look a little maternity-esque—good thing it didn’t have Heath’s number on it or the National Enquirer would have a field day.

For a millisecond, she toyed with the idea of telling her mother that she was pregnant but it wasn’t hers. The only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that her mother wouldn’t get the joke. They’d sucked out her sense of humor in the same liposuction that had shaved two inches off her ass. “Nope, I can’t get pregnant when Mercury is in retrograde.”

Her mother’s eyebrows flickered again. “Dear, most men really don’t appreciate astronomy humor. Maybe you could work on that.”

Lyric snorted. Rob the Knob clearly wasn’t the only one to confuse astrology and astronomy.

“How’s Dad?” Changing the subject seemed in her best interest.

“Your father will be so glad to see you.” Livinia’s voice was steady, even rehearsed. “When he wakes.”

“How is he?” If they had been any other family, they would have clasped hands, wept in each other’s arms, and sought solace in the comfort of their loved ones. But Livinia didn’t do solace—she never had. Which was a problem, since Lyric needed comfort … and something to make her smile.

Closing her eyes, she started to recite a string of prime numbers in order. 2, 3, 5, 7, 11 … Going over the primes had always made her feel a little better, a little more in control, and this time was no exception. By the time she got to 137, at least an artificial sense of comfort had been achieved. Since Heath was probably halfway back to his ranch already, it would have to do. If only she’d taken him up on his offer to come inside with her. He always made her smile.

“They are going to operate on your father in the morning. Right now, he’s in a drug-induced coma while they see if they can reduce the size of the blockage with medication. He’s going to be fine.” Her mother nodded to herself like that was that. “He’s going to be fine.”

The repetition was the first

crack in her mother’s perfectly polished exterior.

“Your sister is in with him.” Livinia glanced at the wall clock above the TV, which was showing SpongeBob behind the wheel of a boat. The sound was muted, thank God. “I’ll let the nurse know that you’re here so you can see him.” She pushed open the door that had foot-tall, teal ICU letters printed on the front.

See him. Lyric took a step back. She’d spent the last twelve hours getting here, but now that it was time to see her father—her daddy—lying unconscious and helpless in a hospital bed, she just couldn’t do it. The image of her strong, handsome father hooked to a respirator and heart monitor—she couldn’t face it. He was her rock, her hero, and seeing him reduced to mere human frailty played on every child’s deepest, darkest fears.

A large, warm, reassuring hand touched her shoulder. “I bought you a present at the gift shop.”

She whirled around to see Heath standing there, a white paper gift bag overstuffed with teal tissue paper in his too-large hand. He hadn’t left her after all.

The adrenaline, fear, hope, and humiliation she’d been running on until now finally gave way to the reality of her father’s situation. Without analyzing the details or overthinking the outcome, she turned into him, wrapped her arms around him, and rested her head against his chest. She needed a hug, and she needed to give one. A sob came from so deep inside her that tears weren’t possible.

Heath’s arms came around her as his chin rested on her head and he rocked her back and forth as she quietly and thoroughly fell to pieces. He didn’t patronize her with platitudes or offer kind, empty words; he just held her up, because right now she couldn’t do it on her own. His fingers slid into her hair and massaged her scalp and then combed down her long blonde hair. Over and over—massaging and then combing. The simple pleasure of a comforting touch. She’d missed that … and for the first time, she realized she’d never had it with Rob.

When she’d finally pulled herself together again, Heath dropped his arms reluctantly, then watched her with careful brown eyes, even as he said, “I don’t usually get this response when I buy a woman a gift. Well, except for Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago when I forgot about a peanut allergy. My date swelled up like Jabba the Hut.”

“Let me guess, you dumped her.” Lyric smiled. Heath always made her smile.

“I beg your pardon. I’m a gentleman. I dropped her off at the emergency room first.” He sighed dramatically. “Sadly, our love didn’t last. There are some things a man can’t live without—sex, cold beer, steak, football, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”

She giggled, actually giggled. That hadn’t happened since … well, since they’d been in high school.

“The Constitution does guarantee some inalienable rights.” Lyric leaned back and smiled up at him. His milk-chocolate-brown eyes glinted in the bad lighting. Ruggedly handsome didn’t do justice to his high cheekbones, tangled eyelashes, full mouth, and slightly crooked—broken one too many times—nose. If Tom Hardy and James Dean had ever managed to mingle some DNA, they might have managed to produce Heath.

His mouth was only inches away from hers when he said, “Open your present.”

Gently, Lyric moved the tissue paper out of the way and pulled out a pair of white cotton panties. Heath took them and turned them around. “It’s a girl” was written on the back in electric-pink block letters.

“Nice, right?” He nodded to himself. “They had ‘It’s a boy,’ but come on, that’s just gross.”