Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Tracy Wolff, Katie Graykowski
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.
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.
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