A torn Hart can only be mended by the right woman.
“So what’s your name?” she slurred, appearing to be bored or perhaps just too upset to want to continue talking about her job or lack thereof. “I’ve seen you around the building a bit. You have the big black truck and the pit bull puppy, right?”
He nodded. “My name is Rex. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.” She yawned. “Rex, eh? Like T. rex.”
He rolled his eyes. “I suppose.”
“Is it short for anything? Like Rexworth, Rexwell or Rexington … Rexthalomew?”
“Rexthalomew?”
She shrugged again. “Rexly?”
He simply snorted and smiled, ignoring the grumble of his belly. Man, she was drunk. “It’s not short for anything.”
She shrugged again. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Three brothers.”
“And do they all have weird names too?”
“I personally don’t think Rex is weird, but no, they don’t. We all have one-syllable names, though. Brock, Chase, and Heath. And our dad was Zane, and our mother is Joy.”
She made an interested pout. “And what’s your middle name?”
“You looking to steal my identity? Want my social insurance number next?”
She stuck her tongue out at him.
He grinned. “My middle name is Barry.”
That had her nose wrinkling like a cute little bunny. “Why Barry?”
“What’s wrong with Barry?”
She shrugged, and her eyes lost focus for a moment, reminding him of her inebriation. “Nothing. But why? Is it like a family name or something?”
He exhaled through his nose. “My parents—in their infinite wisdom—thought it would be fun to give my brothers and I the middle name corresponding to the artist they were listening to while we were conceived.”
“Gross.”
“Indeed.”
“So you’re Rex Barry after … Manilow?”
“White. You know, ‘Let’s Get It On …’” He made sure to drop his voice to baritone level when he sang that little bit.
She nodded in understanding. “And your brothers?”
“Brock Lionel, Chase Marvin and Heath Leppard.”
“Leppard?”
“‘Pour Some—’”
“‘Sugar On Me’!” she finished with a wide smile. “That’s hilarious.”
“At least it’s our middle names and not our first names.”
“True enough. What’s your last name?”
“Hart.”
She rolled his name around on her little pink tongue like foreplay. “Rex Hart … Rex Barry Hart,” she murmured, cocking her head to the side and giving him a once-over. “I like it.” He continued to watch her, wondering when the bottle of whatever spirit she’d chosen to numb the pain was going to hit her like the freight train it inevitably was and send her rushing to the bathroom to go and vomit.
“What’s your full name?” he asked. “Fair is fair, right?”
“Lydia Andréa Sullivan.” She tipped back her booze bottle, then frowned when she realized it was empty. She set it down on her coffee table, and her eyes darted to his case of beer. “So … sexy Rexy, how are you going to make me forget about my jobless woes?”
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