She looked at him, aghast. No one had ever commented on an accent. She’d worked damn hard to remove any instance of it in her speech.
“I do not have a drawl!”
He nodded. “Yeah, you do. It’s subtle, but it’s there. More of a lazy lilt to your words than a distinct accent. You definitely have the flavor of the South, though.”
She was utterly appalled. Her stomach churned and her head throbbed painfully. “Where do you think I’m from?” she croaked.
“Oh, I dunno. Like I said, it’s just a hint. You don’t have to look quite so disgusted. We’re not all backwoods hicks, you know.”
She could still hear the drawn-out, slow drawl in her nightmares. Whispered in her ear. It made her physically ill. For some people, a Southern drawl was like brown sugar. For her it was like nails on a chalkboard.
“Hey, no reason to get uptight. It was just an observation. I’m wrong once or twice a year.”
She tried to smile at his joke but her face felt too tight. She decided a change in subject was the best course before she did or said something to make an even bigger ass of herself.
“So all your friends are married?”
“Micah’s not. Not for lack of trying. Angelina is pregnant, and he’d like to get her to the altar before she pops the kid out.”
“Good for her,” Lyric said. “Just because a guy gets you pregnant doesn’t mean he’s the right guy to marry.”
“Apparently he was right to sleep with,” Connor said dryly. “And it’s not like a guy gets a girl pregnant by himself. There’s definitely some cooperation on the egg’s part.”
“Oh huh-uh. The boy sperm chases down the girl egg and throws himself on her.”
“More like the girl egg crooks her finger and then when the poor unsuspecting sperm comes near, she sucks him in.”
Lyric wrinkled her nose. “I think this is perhaps the most unromantic reproduction talk I’ve ever had.”
Connor chuckled. “Micah loves Angelina, and she loves him. They’ll get married. She just wants to make sure it’s what he wants.”
They pulled into a neighborhood that had all the hallmarks of middle-class suburbia. The entrance was manicured and mowed, trimmed to the nth degree. All the lawns looked like showcases.
The houses were cute cookie-cutters and it was like a scene from Currier and Ives with children playing in an idyllic setting. She’d never been to a scarier place in her life.
“Good God, it’s a Stepford neighborhood,” she muttered.
Connor snorted and pulled into a driveway at the end of a cul-de sac. Lyric’s brow went up as she viewed the Welcome sign just off the walkway to the front door. She burst out laughing and got out.
“Your sister and brother-in-law can’t be all bad,” Lyric said as Connor motioned her to go in front of him.
There in the middle of a neighborhood filled with houses without so much as a grass blade out of place was a house with a sign that read: Beer served here daily.
“I’m impressed. The grass looks like it’s gone a week without cutting,” Lyric said with a grin.
Connor rang the doorbell and laughed. “Yeah, it’s Gray’s way of rebelling against the Homeowners’ Association. It pisses him off that they presume to tell him what to do with his house and lawn, so he waits until he says the neighborhood watchdog starts twitching and foaming at the mouth before he mows the lawn.”
“I think I’m going to like your friends,” she said just as the door opened.
“Well, I hope so,” Gray Montgomery said. He gestured at Connor. “You can’t judge us by this knucklehead.”
Again Lyric was struck by how out of her element she felt. And how intimidated she was by these people. Average, everyday, normal people. It didn’t compute. She should have all these good ole boys kissing her ass just like the rest of the country.
She winced even as the belligerent thought crossed her mind. It was a natural reaction, one she had to fight with increasing regularity. When threatened, lash out. Cover up. Never let them see you at a disadvantage.
“Would you like to come in?” Gray asked.
It was then she realized Connor had already stepped inside the house and she was still on the doorstep gawking like a moron.
“Yeah, thanks,” she said lamely.
She followed the men inside the house and heard distant laughter. Her palms went damp and she rubbed them down her jeans when they entered the living room.
She recognized Faith, and she remembered Nathan Tucker and Micah Hudson from her meeting at Malone’s. Sitting on Micah’s lap with Micah’s hand splayed possessively across her swollen belly had to be Angelina.
Micah was more her usual speed with his floppy hair that hung to his shoulders and the earring glinting in his ear. Nathan Tucker was just downright yummy, though, with his bald head, earring and total badass body. If the woman sitting next to him didn’t look like she could kick Lyric’s and Connor’s asses both, she’d allow herself to drool over the man.
“Hi, Lyric!” Faith called out. “I’m so glad you came.”
The blond woman walked over and took Lyric’s hand before Lyric could draw away. She tugged Lyric forward until she stood in front of the other two women.
“Guys, this is Lyric Jones. Superstar pop singer Lyric Jones, just in case you’ve been living on another planet.”
Lyric had certainly been introduced in more glowing terms than that, but for some reason the implied praise in Faith’s voice discomfited her.
“Lyric, these are two of my best friends, Julie Tucker and Angelina Moyano. I’m just sorry Serena isn’t here to meet you. She and her husband, Damon, are fans. They caught one of your shows in Vegas.”
Lyric smiled and fidgeted under the other women’s scrutiny.
“Nice to meet you,” she offered.
“Hi, Lyric,” Angelina said with a sweet smile. “I’d get up but it would require a forklift.”
Julie snorted and rose from her perch beside Nathan, though Nathan’s hand lingered on her hip. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Julie. It’s nice to meet you, Lyric.”
Lyric shook her hand and smiled again. Now came the awkward part where either uncomfortable silence fell or they made inane small talk about nothing. She hated both options.
To her surprise, Connor came to her rescue. He touched her arm and motioned her back toward Faith while Julie took her seat next to her husband.