by Tracy Wolff
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?”
* * *
Chapter 4
* * *
“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.”
“As for you,” he told the girlfriend with a scowl, “you’ve got five seconds to put those away or I’m getting out the duct tape. And this time, it’s not going be pretty.” He pointed at Heath. “And you, keep your Sharpie to yourself.”
As the couple in front of him finally turned around and did what they were told, Heath took a long sip of Lyric’s drink. Then nearly spewed it when the flight attendant held up his hands and said, “People, this is not Playboy One. Hugh Hefner is not on this airplane, and God willing, he never will be. Which means there will be no more nudity on this airplane. Do you understand me? No. More. Nudity.”
“Now, unless you possess a first-class seat,” he continued, turning a snarky eye on the folks loitering in the aisle, “please return to the back of the plane. The curtain is here for a reason, people. We DO NOT run amuck in first class.” He pointed his index finger at the closest offender. “There is NO AMUCK running in first class. Do I make myself clear?”
Fingers fluttering, he shooed them down the aisle into coach, then turned back to the first-class passengers. “Ladies and gentlemen. There are three rules that we live by here in first class. One, we eat, we drink, we sleep. If there is talking, it is in hushed tones. Hushed tones, people. I’m talking whisper with perhaps a muted hand gesture or two. Personally, I prefer telepathy, but if you haven’t evolved that far then hushed tones will do.
“Two, the only body parts I want to see are your hands and your faces. Everything else must be covered at all times. Please don’t test this rule.” He glared at Boobs and Wranglers Jersey as he spoke.
“And finally, rule number three. The—”
A shriek came from the back of the plane, interrupting him. It was followed by the sound of rapid footsteps tromping up the aisle. Seconds later, a topless woman appeared at the edge of first class. “Deuce, sign me too. Please!”
Mr. Flight Attendant sighed heavily, then snapped the curtain closed right in her face. Without missing a beat, he co
ntinued, “The curtain stays closed. Always. Do you understand these three rules as I’ve explained them to you? If not or you are unable to comply with them, feel free to gather your belongings and move to coach.”
When no one spoke up, he took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from the front of his navy vest before asking, “Now, who needs a drink?”
Pushing this guy’s buttons might not be the best idea, but Heath couldn’t help himself. The flight attendant was a Napoleonic version of Alvin the Chipmunk—except with sharper teeth and better hair—and needling him was way too fun to pass up. Besides, his momma had always told him that testing limits had been his favorite pastime from the day he’d been born. He’d been three weeks late and large enough to ride the rollercoaster at Six Flags when he’d finally come squalling out of the birth canal, and not much had changed in the last thirty-two years.
No doubt her son’s limit testing was one of the many reasons Camille Parker-Montgomery had given herself for leaving his father for the big city on Heath’s tenth birthday. Not once had she ever looked back.
“I’d like two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black with three ice cubes and a lemon-wedge garnish,” he said with a grin. “Oh, and do you have any cherries, or maybe those little pineapple wedges?”
Without missing a beat, Alvin the Flight Attendant whipped a white cocktail napkin out of his navy vest pocket and slammed it down on the small table atop the armrest. “Is. That. All?”
Heath couldn’t resist. “How about one of those little paper umbrellas? Maybe in blue or red?”
Not by so much as an eye flicker did Alvin acknowledge his last comment. But he did turn to Lyric and say, “Wonder Woman, we should have left him behind that paper.”
“You have no idea.” One corner of Lyric’s full mouth turned up. “But on the bright side, at least you don’t have to sit by him.”
He patted her blanket-wrapped shoulder. “Your life is one tragedy after the next, but your glass is always half full. Good for you.”
He made it sound like Lyric was soldiering on through cancer.
“We all have our crosses to bear.” She elbowed Heath in the ribs and once again took over the armrest.
“Hello, I’m sitting right here.” Heath looked from Lyric to Alvin and back again. “What happened to good Southern manners? And flying the friendly skies?”
“Thanks to you, these skies are already way too friendly. Things get any friendlier and I’ll need to install a stripper pole in the galley.” He nodded to Lyric. “So, are you going to introduce me to your famous friend?”
“Tre, I’d like you to meet Heath Montgomery.” Lyric’s voice was all syrupy-sweet Southern hospitality. “And since my mother taught me to always introduce people with thoughtful details—Heath, Tre is equal parts genuine concern and all-out bitchiness. Heath is an …” she made air quotes, “‘old friend’ who was in love with my twin sister but couldn’t tell us apart when it mattered.”
Heath snorted at Lyric’s description of Alvin—make that Tre—but his amusement quickly turned to confusion when the rest of her words sunk in. “What are you talking about? I’ve never mixed you two up. You and Harmony are nothing alike.”
Harmony was the good sister, the one who volunteered at the food pantry, who went back to her hometown after college to open a bakery, and who’d taken her place as San Angelo’s favorite daughter while Lyric was … well … Lyric. Smart and excitable, she was a trouble magnet who didn’t care what people thought, and who always said and did exactly the wrong thing for the right reasons. The two of them might look exactly alike, but they couldn’t be more different.
“Holy cow, there are two of you?” Tre shuddered in not-so-mock horror. “That makes me tired just thinking about it.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Heath shot him the charming smile that had won over many an ardent football hater through the years. It had even brought a few soccer fans over to the dark side. “Double the trouble and twice the fun.”
Lyric punched him in the arm. “Do you ever listen to the words that come out of your mouth, or do you just open it and hope for the best?”
“Hit him again from me.” Tre leaned closer. “Please tell me the two of you never got together, because I’d hate to think you wasted your amazing Agent Provocateur corset on this Neanderthal.”
Lyric blanched and then shook her head. “My underwear is safe.”
“Thank God.” Tre walked up the aisle. “Let’s celebrate. Champagne all around.” His glare dared anyone to order something else.
Heath couldn’t have stopped his eyes from skimming Lyric’s body if he’d tried. She wore Agent Provocateur? Was she wearing it now? She must be, because how else could the chipmunk have known her preference?
The thought boggled his mind, not to mention quite a few of the preconceived notions he had about her. Never in a million years would he have dreamed that Lyric was the type for sexy, high-end lingerie. Harmony, maybe—he remembered the hot-pink bra and panty set she’d worn the one night he’d gotten her into bed—but brainy, head-in-the-clouds Lyric? Never.
Except, now that Tre had made that comment, he couldn’t help wondering … was she wearing that corset now? What did it look like? And more importantly, what did her breasts look like in it?
His heart beat a little faster, and he had to shift around a bit to accommodate the sudden arousal the thought caused. Without meaning to, he found his gaze lingering on Lyric’s breasts. Now that he thought about it, he would love to see her in something black and lacy and barely there. His eyes dipped lower. Something with a thin strap on the sides and another, thinner one that disappeared between the round cheeks of her bottom.
Sweat popped out on his upper lip, and his shorts suddenly fit a lot more tightly than they had. Reaching up, he turned the overhead fan on high. Yes, Lyric and lingerie—they were made for each other.
Another glance at her had him switching the black lace to red satin in his head.
“Stop trying to pull a Superman and X-ray vision the blanket. There’s nothing to see.” Lyric elbowed him again. She really loved that armrest.
She let the blanket slip and ran her index finger along the top of the dress. “The duct tape doesn’t exactly allow for foundation garments.”
Heath reached up and turned her fan on high this time—and pointed it directly at himself. “Really?” he wheezed. “Nothing at all?”
Her eyelids half closed and her low voice purred. “Absolutely nothing. Not enough duct tape and too much Agent Provocateur. It was a bad combination.”
Without looking at him, she fished a round ice cube out of her glass, licked it delicately before sucking it gently into her mouth. “Is it just me or is it getting a little hot in here?”
His blood pressure shot up about twenty points. Her tone suggested it was nothing more than an observation, but watching her suck on an ice cube put her in sex kitten territory. Unexpected … completely unexpected, but definitely appreciated. How the hell had he overlooked her all those years ago?
Suddenly, she shot bolt upright and her eyes went wide as she coughed and sputtered, the ice cube clearly having gotten stuck in her throat.
Now there was the Lyric he’d known and loved. Heath pounded her helpfully on the back.
“Stop,” she hacked between coughs, “I’m fine.” She tried to lean forward, but a ripping sound came from her lap. “Don’t touch me.”
Heath ignored her and continued to pound. He was all about helping a damsel in distress, especially one wearing only duct tape. If he hit her back long enough, maybe that entire farce of a dress would rip right down the middle. Now that was something he was dying to see.
The fact that it was Lyric who was attracting his sexual interest should be awkward in the extreme—after all, he had slept with her sister. But instead, it was interesting … and amusing. His brief night with Harmony had been a long time ago, and Lyric was shaping up to be just the distraction he needed to take his mind off football and
the barren landscape of his life without it. At least for a little while.
Eventually, her coughing turned into slow, deep breaths. She was still wheezing a little, but at least it looked like she was going to live. Though he was a little disappointed when she sat back, cutting off any excuse he had for touching her more. Her face was flushed, her eyes watered, and she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
He hated the idea that she was embarrassed—especially when he had enjoyed the hell out of the last few minutes. Casting his admittedly sex-addled brain around for a neutral topic, he finally settled on the old classic, “So, what’s been happening in your life since I saw you last?”
He leaned away from her and tried to sound casual, not like he was picturing her naked. He’d never really thought of Lyric like “that,” but now that his brain had gone there, he wanted to pull up a chair and stay a while.
Her head turned slowly to him. “So now you want to chat me up?”
“I’ve got—” He flicked his right wrist up to check his Breitling Bentley, a gift from the team owner after Heath’s first Super Bowl win. “—seven and a half hours to fill, and I would love to spend it catching up with you. Let’s start with the story of the duct tape. I bet it’s a good one.”
“You’re the Deuce, so good is relative. I’m afraid my boring life would pale in comparison.” Lyric looked down her nose at him. “Why don’t you put your newspaper wall back up and go back to pretending I don’t exist?”
“No can do. We’ve been through too much in the last thirty minutes. Tre alone is a bonding experience. Besides,” he gestured to the floor, where his now trampled copy of the Wall Street Journal lay, “I no longer have a newspaper to hide behind.”
She picked up a copy of the in-flight magazine and handed it to him. “You can use this instead.”