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“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 continued, “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.
