Harmony and High Heels (Fort Worth Wranglers 2)

“When I mentioned how I broke my leg that time we were skiing in New Zealand—”

“That was a freak accident. Your ski got caught in the lift chair. If that tree hadn’t broken your fall, it could have been a lot worse.” She propped one fist on her hip as she contemplated the best way to murder a six-foot-five, nearly three-hundred-pound man. “Did you tell him that?”

“I don’t think that would have helped our case.” Lyric was always the voice of reason—a.k.a. a total pain in the ass.

“Heath Montgomery is not going to push us around. We are going on this vacation.” She needed this vacation. Pretending to be her mother’s younger clone was one thing, but doing it all the time—with only the occasional trip to the next county over to be herself—was not okay. She counted on these trips to let her hair down, to show the world—and herself—that she hadn’t gotten lost no matter how many years she’d spent kissing Livinia Angleton Wright’s pasty, white, upper-class ass.

“We are,” Lyric agreed. “I swear. We just need to pick a different spot, someplace where there’s a much lower chance of me dying.”

“Your chance of dying is just as great at home, or have you forgotten about the planetarium bouncy house disaster?” Her sister had almost suffocated when a blow-up planetarium had collapsed at her neighbor’s kid’s birthday party.

“When they said they’d rented a planetarium for Billy’s birthday, how was I supposed to know that it was a converted bouncy house? Who’s ever heard of a bouncy house planetarium?” Lyric took a deep breath. “Anyway, that’s exactly my point. If I can almost die just doing normal things, how can I be expected to survive BASE jumping?”

Lyric was in logical PhD mode. It really pissed Harmony off.

“Is that your point or Heath’s point?” Harmony’s annoyance was turning to anger—and to hurt—deep inside of her.

There was a long silence. “Heath’s,” Lyric reluctantly admitted.

“Wow. Married three months and already he’s got you whipped.” Harmony was never getting married. Marriage seemed to be a license for men to push women around.

“That’s not fair, Harm, and you know it.” Her sister sounded resigned. Another point against marriage.

“What I know is that you’re my sister. My twin sister. You know more than anyone how much I need this trip—”

Call-waiting beeped, interrupting Harmony before she could work herself up to full steam. Which was probably a good thing, considering she didn’t want to say anything she might regret. After all, it wasn’t Lyric’s fault she was married to an ass. Or, at least, not completely Lyric’s fault.

Harmony knew what she needed to do. “I’m coming to visit. I’ll be there this afternoon. Heath and I need to nail down some boundaries. He may be your husband, but I’m your sister. Sister’s before misters.”

She’d been blinded by his love for her sister, but this macho madness ended today. Men didn’t dictate anything to the Wright sisters.

“Look, I’ve got to go. Someone is calling on the other line. It’s probably a customer.” Harmony was running a bakery. She didn’t have time for her sister to be wimpy.

“Harm, wait—“

“I’ll call you back when I’m done taking the order.” More like when she finally had her mouth under control—which, come to think of it, might be never. Still, she had to give it a shot. The last thing she wanted to do was alienate her sister and best friend.

Clicking off without bothering to say good-bye, she moved right into her usual spiel on the other line. “Thank you for calling the Wright Way. This is Harmony speaking. How may I make your day a little sweeter?” She tried not to gag as she said the last line—it was totally her mother’s brainstorm, and though Livinia wasn’t here, she had ways of finding out if Harmony was doing things her way. FBI interrogators could learn a thing or two from Livinia Wright.

“Is this Harmony Wright?” the slightly nasally voice on the other end said.

“It is.” She narrowed her eyes, preparing to unload her bad mood on whatever unfortunate telemarketer had chosen the worst moment to call. Bitch-slapping telemarketers was so much fun.

“Please hold for Holly Braeburn.”

Nasally woman was getting on Harm’s nerves. “You called me. I’m not holding for anyone—” She broke off as the name registered. Holly was the woman who had run Cupcake Cage Match, the Las Vegas cupcake war competition she’d secretly participated in last fall. It was part mixed martial arts and part Cupcake Wars.

Harmony had won the competition—of course she had, her cupcake recipes and her cage-fighting skills were unparalleled in the baking world. The ten thousand in prize money she had won was what she was using to finance the trip to Chile.

She barely had time to wonder what Holly could possibly be calling about, when the woman herself came on the line. “Harmony, how are you?”

“I’m good, thanks.” She knew she sounded cautious, but she really hoped Holly wasn’t calling because she needed the money back. Then again, with the way her day was going … anything was possible.

“I’m so glad to hear that. We need you in tip-top shape for the show we want to do.” Holly was all business. Harm really liked that about Holly.

“The show?” More cupcake MMA fighting sounded good to her.

“Yes. We’re looking to liven things up over here at Food Network, and when I started thinking about a new baking show, you were the first person who came to mind.” It sounded like Holly was shuffling paper on the other end of the phone.