When she’d finally pulled herself together again, Heath dropped his arms reluctantly, then watched her with careful brown eyes, even as he said, “I don’t usually get this response when I buy a woman a gift. Well, except for Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago when I forgot about a peanut allergy. My date swelled up like Jabba the Hut.”
“Let me guess, you dumped her.” Lyric smiled. Heath always made her smile.
“I beg your pardon. I’m a gentleman. I dropped her off at the emergency room first.” He sighed dramatically. “Sadly, our love didn’t last. There are some things a man can’t live without—sex, cold beer, steak, football, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”
She giggled, actually giggled. That hadn’t happened since … well, since they’d been in high school.
“The Constitution does guarantee some inalienable rights.” Lyric leaned back and smiled up at him. His milk-chocolate-brown eyes glinted in the bad lighting. Ruggedly handsome didn’t do justice to his high cheekbones, tangled eyelashes, full mouth, and slightly crooked—broken one too many times—nose. If Tom Hardy and James Dean had ever managed to mingle some DNA, they might have managed to produce Heath.
His mouth was only inches away from hers when he said, “Open your present.”
Gently, Lyric moved the tissue paper out of the way and pulled out a pair of white cotton panties. Heath took them and turned them around. “It’s a girl” was written on the back in electric-pink block letters.
“Nice, right?” He nodded to himself. “They had ‘It’s a boy,’ but come on, that’s just gross.”
Lyric took them from him, went up on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much. They’re perfect.”
She’d needed some underwear to go under the too-loose boxers, and he’d taken care of it. Just like he’d been taking care of her ever since she plopped down next to him on that plane.
The knowledge moved something inside of her, but before she could think about just what it was she was feeling, something thunked her in the back of the head hard enough to have her forehead knocking against Heath’s cheek. His arm came around her to support her weight.
“What in the holy hell is going on?” Harmony’s voice was an exaggerated stage whisper.
Lyric jumped but didn’t get very far as Heath’s arm kept her firmly by his side. “Heath bought me a present.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Harmony nodded at Heath. “Panties? Original … and very mature. His generosity knows no bounds.”
“I am a giver.” Heath stuck out his free hand to Harmony. “Good to see you, Harm.”
Harmony glared at his hand, and Lyric could all but see her sister analyzing the bones and which ones to break. Owing to her twin sister’s badass attitude and the fact that she was a level-six Krav Maga, she could do it.
Lyric stepped between Harmony and Heath. “He’s been nothing but kind.” She turned to look back at him as it really sunk in. He had been nothing but kind.
Harmony watched both of them like she’d just seen E.T. and Jesus come down from heaven holding hands.
Lyric brandished the panties at her sister. “You see, I don’t have on any—”
“I don’t want to know.” Harmony’s eyes narrowed at Heath as she put her fingers up to her eyes before pointing them at Heath. “I’ve got my eye on you.”
Then she turned to Lyric and pulled her into a hug. “Good to see you, big sis. Dad’s holding his own. Before they put him under, he asked about you.”
“Oh. That’s … good. That’s good, right?” Lyric needed extra reassurance.
“It’s good,” Harmony confirmed. “Why don’t you go in and see him for a minute? Let him know you’re here. It’ll put your mind at ease.”
Lyric nodded. Everything inside of her wanted to be excited about seeing her father, but fear was a powerful thing. She nodded to herself and picked up where she’d left off on the prime numbers. 139, 143, 149, 151, 157 … “Okay, I’m ready.”
Heath’s arm slid from around her waist as his hand slipped into hers. He laced his fingers through hers. “Yes, we’re ready.”
Harmony’s eyes lingered on the clasped hands, and then she shook her head and mumbled something that sounded like fucking hormones.
167, 173, 179, 181. Lyric rolled her neck and walked toward the swinging doors to the ICU unit. 191, 193, 197—
“Why are you whispering numbers?” Heath’s voice was right next to her ear.
“They’re prime numbers. They make me feel better. I understand them—they understand me.” Only the world of math made sense.
To his credit, Heath just nodded. Then, while keeping his fingers tangled with hers, he used his other hand to pull out his iPhone and thumb type something. “What number did you leave off on?”
“197. Why?”
He glanced down at the screen. “199, 211, 223, 227, 229, 233, 239.” He stroked her knuckle. “Feel better or do you need me to go on?” The sincerity in his eyes punched her directly in the heart. No joking around, no devil-may-care smile, just honest concern … after the day they’d had, it shouldn’t have caught her off guard, but it did. Enough so that when he nudged the swinging door open with his foot, she stepped forward instead of back.
As she did, she braced herself for the blinding, sterile white of Hollywood’s version of ICU. But except for the black metal of the handrails on the hospital beds lined up like cars parked at an angle, everything was pale green and pink. And she meant everything—it gave the walls a horrific Easter egg effect.
Her father lay in the fourth and last bed on the left, and if he hadn’t been the only one in ICU, she might not have recognized him. His thick, gray hair was limp against the pink pillow, and his tanned skin seemed two sizes too big tucked under the green blanket. A heart monitor and respirator hummed and beeped in the background, and she hated them even as she was grateful that they were keeping her daddy alive.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, her hand squeezing Heath’s so tightly that she was cutting off the circulation in her own fingers.
Long enough for her to take in every detail of the room, every detail of her father.
Long enough to realize that time and illness had snuck up on her father when she wasn’t looking, robbing him of strength and vitality and the health she’d always taken for granted.
More than long enough to wish she was anywhere but here.
Scared, sad, and more fragile than she would ever admit, she wanted to simultaneously run away and crawl into his lap. Too bad she couldn’t do either.
“He’s going to be okay.” Heath gave her a reassuring squeeze of her hand.
She wanted to believe him so badly, but she knew the statistics, knew exactly how many people died of heart disease every year. Please God, don’t let her daddy be one of them. Not yet. Not now. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready—
“Excuse me.” A skinny nurse with a lot of orange hair piled on her head looked up from behind a computer screen. “Only one person is allowed in here at a time.”
“It’s okay, I’m—”
“I don’t care if you’re Jesus and its Sunday, only one person …” She stood and squinted to get a better look at Heath. Her face broke into a crooked smile. “Oh, you’re Heath Montgomery. My husband is your biggest fan. I didn’t grow up here or I’d have recognized you right off.” She headed toward them, right hand extended. “I’m Jeannie Towns.”
Without missing a beat, Heath dropped his arm and shook her hand. “You’d be married to Bubba Towns?”
Jeannie was filled with all kinds of self-importance at having her husband recognized. “That’s correct.”
“You tell him I said hey.” He tried to drop her hand, but she held on tight, so Heath continued shaking it. “Does he still cook the Wednesday night dinner at First Baptist? That man could fry a mean catfish.”
The two of them descended into catfish stories as Lyric moved closer to her father. Trust Heath to find a way to be here for her e
ven when he wasn’t supposed to be. And though he seemed totally involved in the catfish stories, she could still feel the warmth of his hand against her back. Still feel the weight of his gaze on her as he launched into the story of the biggest fish he’d ever caught. It was strangely comforting, considering she’d started this bizarre day hating him with the power of a thousand burning suns. And now … now she didn’t know what she felt. But she knew it wasn’t hate.
Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, though, not with her father lying there so still and pale. Stepping to the side of his bed, she touched his hand. Though it was limp, it was still warm and familiar. She ran a finger over the knuckle of his thumb. He’d broken it building her a playhouse when she was seven. Harmony hadn’t wanted any part of it, as it was outside and therefore dirty, but Lyric had loved that playhouse, had loved working on it right alongside him. Hauling tools, nails, and wood while her father did all of the hard work. He’d let her measure and cut and hammer because he’d wanted her to feel important, but after she was supposed to be in bed one night, she’d caught him dismantling and rebuilding the area she’d put together.
“Just making sure it’s sturdy,” he’d said. “The most important people in my life deserve to be safe.”
Tears, warm and plentiful, leaked from the corners of her eyes as she covered his hand with hers. How could she make it safe for him, she wondered, as she looked over all the different machines helping to keep him comfortable. Helping to keep him alive.
The weight of the day finally broke her, and she let out a honking sob that shook her whole body. She’d never been a delicate crier—that was Harmony— but right now, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
With the hem of her shirt, she mopped at her face. All talk of catfish broke off as Heath slid his hand to the small of her back. “Christ, that was a scary sound.”
“It’s a gift.” She swiped at her face again. “I’ll wash it before I return it.” She waggled the hem of the shirt.
“That goes without saying.” He pulled her to his side. “He’s going to be fine. Nurse Jeannie—that’s what she likes to be called—told me that this is pretty routine.” His voice cracked. “He’s going to be fine.”
She glanced up at him. His eyes misted over, and he blinked, trying to hide it. In her outrage of the last twelve years, she’d forgotten that Daddy had become like a father to Heath after his own father had descended into the bottle and never managed to climb out. “I’m sorry, I’ve been selfish. You love him too.”
“Did you know that he was the one who turned me onto football? He said I needed an outlet for all that anger I had when my mother left. On the days that I didn’t stay at your house, he knocked on my front door every morning at five to wake me up. He’d scramble me some eggs and we’d go for a run. That’s what got me through it … he’s what got me through it.” Heath rapidly blinked his eyes again. “When I graduated from high school, he shook my hand and told me that if he’d had a son, he hoped he’d have been just like me.”
“He loves you and is proud of the man you are today.” Her sweet Daddy—always helping others to achieve the best version of themselves.
“Speaking of proud—he was always talking about you. There was never a father prouder of his daughter.” Heath smiled despite the lone tear running slowly down his cheek. “You are his favorite person in the world.”
While it was good to hear, she knew the truth. Daddy had to love her because her mother never had. He’d never wanted her to feel like less than Harmony. “Thanks.”
“So …” Heath pursed his lips. “What should we do now? On TV they hold the sick person’s hand and make some mushy, tearful bargain with God.” He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “God, if you spare him, I’ll devote my life to curing cancer or I’ll donate all of my belongings to the poor and take a vow of chastity.” He opened his eyes, his hands dropped to his sides, and he shrugged. “Since he’s going to be fine, the chastity seems like overkill.”
“Let’s back-burner the bargains with God for now.” She scooted a chair closer and sat next to the bed. “How about we just hold his hands and talk to him?”
She covered her father’s hand with both of hers. Heath slid a chair over to the other side of the bed and touched her father’s hand.
“His hand’s kinda sweaty. I thought it would be cold.” Heath wiped his hand on his thigh and then covered her father’s hand with his. “I guess that was the wrong thing to say.”
“What do you think the approved topics of conversation are for a coma victim?” She chewed on her top lip.
“How about prime numbers?” He held up his phone. “I’ve got the list right here in case we need it.” He sat back in his chair. “What do you think? Can he hear us?”
“The popular theory is that coma patients can hear and understand those around them. There is quite a bit of research. I should look it up. I wonder if it’s the sound of the voice or the actual words that a coma patient responds to?” Looking around for her purse, she realized that she’d left it in Cherry Cherry. “Can I borrow your iPhone?”
“Nope.” He shoved the phone in his front shorts pocket. “There is vital information on this phone, and I don’t want you snooping around, or worse, reconfiguring the damn thing.”
“That was one time in high school. Your laptop was a mess and only running at fifty percent capacity. I simply cleaned it up—”
“I lost half my chemistry notes.”
“No you didn’t. I put them in a file called ‘chemistry notes’ on your desktop. The reason you almost failed chem was that you didn’t take notes or study or read the notes I lent you. No matter what you think, charm and football won’t actually get you everything in life.”
He smiled his crooked smile. “Maybe not, but it got us in here, and Nurse Jeannie is bringing us dinner too. Admit it—I’m good.”
She raised a brow at him. “Do you want me to leave so you and your ego can be alone?”
“No, just try not to make too much noise and you won’t bother us.” He grinned.
“As long as it doesn’t smother my father, I’ll keep my voice down.” She glanced at his phone. “Cut the crap, Heath. We both know the reason you don’t want me to see your phone. I promise I won’t be offended by the overabundance of sexting and porn sites.” No one knew better than she how much Heath loved women … lots and lots of women. And she was totally fine with it. After all, she’d gotten over her crush on him a long time ago, and it wasn’t like she expected the most famous quarterback in the NFL to live like a monk.
So the only question was why was he being such a prude about it?
“That’s right, I’ve got an entire harem on speed dial.” Despite the flippant answer, he kept a tight grip on his phone.
She rolled her eyes. “Good for you. I swear, I won’t call any of them and try to seduce them away from you. I just want to look up some research on coma patients that I read a few months ago.”
He still looked reluctant, but seriously, what was he going to do? Deny her the chance to read about her father’s condition? Heath might be a man-whore, but his heart of gold had always been his best feature.
Sure enough, he handed her the phone. But she pretty much had to pry his fingers off the thing. And he kept a close eye on her as she brought up Google.
“Would you stop?” she demanded when she couldn’t handle being the object of his eagle-eyed stare for one second longer. “I’m staying clear of the contacts icon, and even I’m not gutsy enough to pull up your messages.” She shuddered. “All those misspelled words would drive me crazy.”
“What can I say? Sexting is a slippery slope. One minute you’re talking about touching your nipple, and the phone changes it to torching your Nippon. Or tickling your Newton. Or …”
“I get it,” she interrupted before he could get the ridiculous all ramped up again.
“I’m just saying. Sexting is for people with smaller fingers.” He spread his fingers out w
ide. “I’m cursed with clumsy hands that would really like to torch your Nippon.”
She shivered. “Trust me. I don’t want to know about your nipples or Nippons. And I promise not to pull up your pics either. I have the feeling I’d learn things about the birds and bees that would make seasoned sex workers blush.”
After all, knowing he had a sports hero’s sex life was one thing. Seeing it up close and personal was altogether another.
He tilted his head to the left like he was sifting through memories. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush.”
“Exactly.” Just as she pulled up Google, Heath got a text. He lunged at her like a hungry lion at a gazelle, all in an effort to get the phone before she could read message. She couldn’t help but catch a few words as they scrolled across the top of the screen. Words like unrecoverable injury, contract, regret—
That was about the time he ripped the phone from her hand … and her heart from her chest. Because while she’d made a number of jokes about his bionic knee since this trip began, especially in her own head, it had never occurred to her that he’d injured something modern medicine couldn’t fix. Had never occurred to her that Heath “Deuce” Montgomery might be going through a crisis of his own.
* * *
Chapter 10
* * *
Oh God, what had she seen? Heath glanced down. The message was from Fort Worth Radiology. The only words he saw before he closed the message were—never play football again. Right now, he couldn’t stand for her to see him as broken. Not her. The rest of the world be damned, but he couldn’t face Lyric knowing the truth. That he was washed-up before he hit thirty-five.
But as her huge blue eyes locked onto his, his heart shriveled up to the size of a raisin. It was written all over her face that she had seen plenty.
“Am I supposed to forget what I just saw?” Her tone suggested that there wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening.
“Actually, yeah, that’s exactly what you should do.” He grabbed her father’s hand, trying his damnedest to ignore the sweat rolling down his spine as he asked, “How about those prime numbers?”