Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

When her mother had called with the bad news, she’d told Lyric to get home to San Angelo as quickly as possible, but when you were an astrophysicist for SETI, quick was relative. And how ridiculous was it that it took her two minutes to launch something halfway to the moon but nine hours to go a measly five thousand miles here on earth? Was it any wonder she always had her head in the clouds? Life on earth was a million times messier.

Her whole life was about predictable outcomes, and people were decidedly unpredictable. Take Rob the Knob and the new love of his life. He’d come home two weeks ago, telling her that he was moving out because Mercury was in retrograde. He’d found his soul mate in an astrologer and part-time hula dancer, and the time was finally right for him to follow his stars. She wasn’t sure what it said about her—or their relationship—that her first thought hadn’t been murder or anger or even sorrow. She’d simply wondered how someone could read Mercury in retrograde while wearing a coconut bra and a grass skirt.

Mercury in retrograde—what the hell did that even mean anyway? And why was it permission for Rob the Knob to dump her two years into what she’d thought would be the last romantic relationship of her life?

A lone tear trickled down her cheek, but she wiped it away impatiently. Her daddy was going to be fine—he had to be fine—because who else was going to calm her mother down when she found out that Robert Carrington III had dumped her daughter for a cheesy hula dancer? God knew there wasn’t enough Valium in the world—or in her mother’s private “vitamin” stash—to do the job.

Knowing she was going to go nuts if she had to sit here for the next eight hours thinking about her father’s heart attack and her ex-fiancé’s duplicity, Lyric reached for the in-flight magazine. But when the first article was on how some scientists now considered astrology a new branch of science, she slammed the thing back into the seat pocket in front of her. Clearly the writer’s stars were also retrograding. Apparently it was contagious, like yawning or Ebola.

Tre chose that moment to flounce down the aisle. He stopped at her seat, held a blanket out to her. “Here’s your cape, Wonder Woman. I thought you might be cold.” He glanced down at the shoes and purse she’d crammed into the seat pocket in front of her. “You need to stow those under the seat in front of you. In case of turbulence, the last thing Wonder Woman needs is a stiletto in the eye.”

“I couldn’t bend that far. The dress is too tight.”

“Whining is so unbecoming. Don’t you know we girls have been suffering for fashion for centuries?” But he reached forward and pulled the shoes out. “We’ll just store these overhead. No bending necessary.”

He flicked the blanket open, stood back debating his options, and then slid a corner into her cleavage like a huge napkin before tucking the rest around her. “Can I get you anything else?”

Lyric swallowed the lump in her throat, absurdly grateful for the fact that she’d somehow ended up on a plane with a flight attendant who was kind and benevolent in his own bitchy way.

“A glass of water would be nice.”

He patted her shoulder. “Oh, honey, you’ve earned a lot more than a little H two uh-oh. I’ll be right back.”

Beside her, the newspaper was shaking. She hoped it was laughter and not a seizure, but from this angle she couldn’t be sure. What was with this guy anyway? He made the Unabomber seem chatty.

Tre came back brandishing an entire basket of liquor bottles in one hand and a glass of ice in the other. “I didn’t think one would be enough. What would you like?”

Lyric eyed the display, thought of the long flight in front of her, and said, “Yes, please,” as she scooped the entire basket right out of his hand. “And a glass of cranberry juice when you get a chance.”

“Great idea. Give your liver a vitamin infusion before hitting the hard stuff … like breaking the fall from a ten-story building with a pillow. Just for fun, I’ll bring you some tomato juice too. I’d hate to have to slap your forehead later because you coulda had a V8.” He glanced at the newspaper. “Can I get you anything, big guy?”

The

newspaper didn’t so much as quiver, but a muffled, “No, I’m good,” did float over the top of it.

“He’s famous,” Tre mouthed. He leaned down and whispered next to her ear, “Who knew a newspaper was so versatile? Reading material and shield from the hordes of comatose passengers who are even now leaping over the seats to get to him, pen in hand for autographs. It’s a good thing you’re duct-taped into that dress, Wonder Woman, otherwise you might jump him too.”

“Who is it? The Rock?” She would have eased up and peeked over the paper, but in this dress, easing was anything but easy.

The paper rattled angrily, and Tre’s eyes widened. “I don’t think he’s a WWF fan. I’ll get that cranberry juice now.”

Traitor.

Lyric watched him hightail it down the aisle. Oh sure, he had no problem flouncing down here and riling up Mr. Uncongeniality, but the second things got a little tense, he left her to deal with the fallout. This was all she needed … a narcissistic, Rock-hating seatmate with a bionic knee and possession of HER armrest. She opened a bottle of vodka. To hell with the cranberry juice. She couldn’t wait that long.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lower the paper about halfway. She couldn’t see much from this vantage point, and after Tre’s latest stunt, she didn’t want to be too obvious. Famous people didn’t like being gawked at—or so she’d heard. Under the guise of turning on her overhead light, she elbowed her way onto the armrest and tried to peek around the paper. It moved to block her view. This guy was cagey, but curiosity had been her guiding star—take that, Rob; she had stars too—for as long as she could remember. Since subterfuge wasn’t her strong suit, she shoved the basket his way. “There’s enough for two.”

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.