by Tracy Wolff
Lyric finally made it to her seat—in the last row of first class. The window seat, and half of her aisle seat, was occupied by an open newspaper and the man who was holding it. His long legs were spread wide like he had some really big business that didn’t allow for his knees to touch and made it necessary for him to take up the entire row. She couldn’t see his face, but his enormous hands and extra-large shoulders were visible even around the newspaper.
Dear God, she was riding back to the mainland with the Hulk. She leaned forward a little, trying to decide if the green tint on his skin was real or just a trick of the bad lighting. Thank God, no green, but she did notice a titanium knee brace wrapped around his right knee that would have done Iron Man proud. Even if he wasn’t the Hulk, this man was massive. Lucky for her, the duct tape had shaved off those extra inches.
“Excuse me,” she told him, inching her way out of the aisle and into her row of seats. He scooted over—or at least as over as he was able to—with a flick of the newspaper, but didn’t lower it by so much as an inch. Which was fine with her. No one needed to see what was going to happen in the next sixty seconds.
Taking a deep breath, she bent her knees and attempted to lower her butt gently onto the seat cushion. If she was careful, she could perch on the edge and then slide slowly back against the seat and all would be good.
It was working, too. A couple more inches and she’d have it—then it would be smooth flying all the way to Texas. To her daddy.
The thought of him lying pale and sick in a hospital bed shattered the final remnants of her concentration, and she lost her balance, falling the last few inches into the seat. The subsequent screech of ripping duct tape—which sounded an awful lot like a double-bean-burrito-initiated attack of gastritis—echoed through the plane. Faces turned to gawk at her. Beside her, the newspaper twitched as its owner tried to shrink his extra-large body back against the window.
Hands raised like a traffic cop, she leaned into the aisle so that everyone could see her face. “It was the duct tape, I swear,” she said loudly enough for all of first class to hear. It might have just been her, but it seemed like the entire section breathed a sigh of relief.
Sensing movement beside her, she turned back around just in time to see the newspaper fly back into place so that all she saw were a few strands of shaggy blonde hair. Seriously? She didn’t know what was up with her antisocial seatmate, but it was starting to get on her nerves. While she wasn’t up for conversation, having access to her armrest would have been nice.
She had just buckled up when Tre’s voice came over the plane’s loudspeaker. “Folks, please fasten your seat belts. It’s past time to get the show on the road. We apologize for the delay, but our last passenger blew in with a severe wardrobe malfunction. Bad news is it put us a little behind, but the good news is we found another use for duct tape.”
Lyric decided Tre was like Splenda, all sweet and nice in the beginning, but the bitter aftertaste lingered for hours.
She slunk down even lower in her seat. As the engines fired up, she pulled out her cell and dashed off a quick message to Harmony, letting her twin know when her plane was landing—and asking if she could bring a dress, a pair of scissors, and some acetone to the airport. Harmony wouldn’t think twice about it. After all, it wasn’t the first time her twin had had to bail Lyric out of trouble—and, unfortunately, probably wouldn’t be the last; however, it might be the one that appealed to her most, considering Harmony’s secret desire to open the world’s first drive-thru dominatrix dungeon and bakery. Opening a place where she could lash someone with a cat-o’-nine-tails while they were enjoying one of her homemade éclairs had always been a dream of hers. She’d been kidding, of course. Lyric was almost fifty percent sure she had been kidding.
Seconds later, the plane taxied down the runway and then they were in the air. Lyric closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but now that she was sitting still, all she could see was her father’s face.
When she was six and he’d taken her to the roof of the courthouse to see her first solar eclipse.
When she was twelve and they’d built their own telescope from scratch.
When she was eighteen and had burrowed into his arms for comfort after Heath Montgomery, the boy she’d had a crush on since she was ten, broke her heart into a million pieces.
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.
First Rob, and then Daddy, and now this? Of all the airplanes in all the cities in all the world, what were the odds that the man who’d stolen her heart and her virginity—and then promptly forgotten she was alive—would be sitting next to her on the most poignant plane ride of her life? Like twenty-seven times ten to the ninth power. Maybe even thirty-one times ten to the—
She cut herself off. The actual odds so weren’t the point. The point was, Heath was here. Goddammit.
If she actually believed in fate, she might think that Mistress Kailana had given up on reading the stars and was now hurling them directly at her.
“Hello, Lyric,” Heath said as he reached into the basket for a bottle of Scotch. “Long time no see.”
* * *
Chapter 3
* * *
The look of horror on Lyric’s face was all Wile E. Coyote right before the Road Runner blew him up. She yanked the basket away so fast it was amazing the force of it didn’t send her tumbling into the aisle. Which was something Heath would pay to see—with as tight as that duct tape was wrapped around her, he figured she’d end up flailing around on her back, her mighty fine legs waving in the air. Like a turtle that had been turned over. Or a Victoria’s Secret model whose eighty-pound wings had sent her toppling off the runway.
He’d seen both and had to admit, he much preferred the angel. Though Lyric and her—he glanced down at the long, tanned expanse of leg she was currently showing—mighty fine gams looked like they would put on a spectacle even Victoria’s Secret couldn’t match.
Then again, she kind of already had. It was funny, but he remembered her as skinny and nerdy with baggy clothes and no fashion sense. The fashion sense hadn’t changed, but everything else had filled out in the last twelve years, which the duct-tape mummy dress made abundantly clear.
Leave it to Lyric to make an entrance like that. Hollywood couldn’t think this shit up, and neither could any normal person. Trouble not only found her, it tackled her and hung on for dear life. Some people were naturally clumsy, but Lyric had taken that to a whole new level. If there was a way to fall in it, spill it, slip on it, or drop it, she’d find a way … or a way would find her.
On one occasion, in elementary school, when his fifth- and her fourth-grade classes had taken a joint field trip to the Archway cookie company, an entire vat of gingersnap cookie dough had managed to fall on her head. No one else had gotten so much as a molecule on them, but Lyric had been covered. Then in middle school, there’d been the petting zoo incident—a goat had eaten her dress while she was still wearing it.
He glanced over—now that he thought about it, her life seemed to be a series of wardrobe mishaps. Lucky him, today’s involved skintight duct tape.
It had taken every ounce of concentration he had not to lower the newspaper when she’d sat down and her dress had ripped so loudly. Only the fact that the guy one row up was wearing a Fort Worth Wranglers jersey—with Heath’s number on it, in fact—had kept that paper in place. After the news he’d gotten from his PT today, the last thing he wanted was to smile and sign autograph books—or, more likely, breasts, as “Sign My Tits” had become his unfortunate trademark and his fans’ battle cry after he’d spent a particularly long night at a gentlemen’s club his rookie year. The next day ESPN had dubbed him “the Deuce,” and he’d been signing chests ever since. Even after ten years in the NFL and two Super Bowl rings, he hadn’t been able to shake the name.
But once he’d realized it was Lyric next to him, talking to her became so much more important than hiding his anonymity. After all, the two of them had been driving each other crazy since kindergarten. Though, if he counted that unfortunate finger painting episode, it might have started as early as the Mother’s Day Out program at the First Baptist Church of San Angelo.
“Come on, Lyric,” he coaxed as he made another reach for one of the small bottles of Scotch. “You know you don’t like Johnnie Walker. You’re more a Mike’s Hard Lemonade girl.” If he remembered correctly, JW was more her twin, Harmony’s, drink. Back in the day the three of them had spent more than one night in high school getting drunk and talking about how they were going to take on the world. Right up until he’d slept with Harmony, and she’d ripped his heart out of his chest.
Lyric’s big, round blue eyes—which he’d noticed weren’t close to being the curviest thing about her—turned glacial. “Scotch isn’t the only thing on this plane I don’t like, but it looks like I’ll have to adapt.”
He was baffled by her hostility, especially considering they’d once been really good friends. But from the day Harmony had dumped him, Lyric had treated him like he had a social disease. He’d understood at the time—or at least, he’d told himself he had. Everyone knew girls stuck together over things like that. But twelve years was a long time to hold a grudge when he hadn’t actually done anything wrong.
She turned her back on him—or tried to, anyway. That duct-taped dress of hers made it almost impossible for her to move. Which was good for him, since it gave him a chance to grab for the Johnnie Walker. Painkillers be damned. If he was going to deal with her anger-management issues, he needed a drink.
He’d obviously underestimated Lyric’s scorn for him, however, because she jerked the
basket away so fast that a bottle of Jim Beam shot out and beaned the guy across the aisle right in the temple. The bottle bounced off the guy’s head, hit his knee, and tumbled to the floor.
The three of them turned as one to watch as it rolled down the aisle into coach.
After it disappeared, Lyric’s latest victim turned in their direction. With a sinking heart, Heath watched as his eyes widened with recognition. “Hey, aren’t you—” The guy didn’t bother finishing the sentence. Instead, he leaped the three feet across the aisle. “I’m a huge fan.”
With a long, put-upon sigh, Heath sat forward and accepted his fate. This was exactly what he’d been dreading all along, though he’d been certain the first shot would have come from Wranglers Jersey in front of him—hence the newspaper camouflage. Pulling a napkin out of the basket, he grabbed a pen out of his pocket and scrawled his signature across the American Airlines logo. Then he handed it to the guy with a smile that was more fake than their flight attendant’s tan. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do. Fame came at a price, and that one bottle of Jim Beam was going to end up costing him eight hours of peace and quiet.
“I’m sorry. Can we talk later? Right now I’m catching up with an old friend.”
At the “old friend,” Lyric’s eyes cut over to him.
The guy took the napkin, wiped his hands with it, and tossed it on the floor behind him. “Dr. Wright, I saw your last video podcast on the Crab Nebula—it was amazing.” There was so much reverence in the guy’s voice, he might have been talking to Jesus or Joe Namath.
Lyric straightened her shoulders, smoothed her hair down, and when she smiled, there was nothing fake about it. “Thanks. Next week, I’m doing quasar output and the effects on dark matter.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t wait!” His eyes practically glowed with the fervor of the zealot.
All around them, heads were turning to check out the commotion. Terrified of Wranglers Jersey one row ahead, Heath tried to slink down to hide behind the chair in front of him. But at six foot five and two forty, wiggle room didn’t exist. Add in the broken knee and the reading light shining down like a spotlight, and he might as well have been the featured performer at the Super Bowl halftime show.