Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

shot out, knocked Wranglers Jersey’s hand away. “Dude, show some respect. Don’t touch her.”
    Guarding Lyric’s cleavage was turning into a full-time job.
    The guy blanched, held up both his hands in a sign of surrender. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to disrespect your girl.”
    You would think after ten years as a pro quarterback, he would be used to the crazies, but the truth was, they still threw him for a loop. He heard a snort come from Lyric’s general direction, and worried she was upset. But when he glanced at her, she was laughing her ass off—enjoying the hell out of his discomfort. Just like a woman.
    Trapped now—as much by the crush of expectations as by the small crowd that had gathered around him—he gingerly reached for the Sharpie and started to sign right below the woman’s chin.
    Lyric stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, no, no. You don’t want to sign there. The bones are much too close to the surface and it will hurt when she gets it tattooed. Plus, she might not want it showing at her next job interview.” She repositioned his hand directly over the fullest part of the woman’s breast. “Sign here, where it’s fleshier. But be careful of the aureoles. She might want to breast-feed someday.”
    Gritting his teeth, he quickly scrawled his name across her chest, avoiding the nipples as Lyric had suggested. This wasn’t the first rack he’d signed in his career, but it was by far the most uncomfortable. Something about Lyric watching and offering suggestions threw him off his game.
    Once he’d given one autograph, it was open season. People handed him napkins, scraps of paper, T-shirts, even a diaper bag. He was on signature number eight when the flight attendant stomped down the aisle and muscled his way through the crowd. Hands on hips and one eyebrow raised, he glared down at Lyric. “What. Did. You. Do?”

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Chapter 4
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    “Me?” Lyric pressed her hands against her chest in mock innocence. “I haven’t done anything. It’s Mr. Football over here causing all the commotion—signing boobs and posing for pictures.”
    The flight attendant sighed heavily, then, with all the self-importance of a dictator commanding his legions, pulled himself up to his full height of five foot six inches. Turning to Wranglers jersey, he ordered, “Stop touching those. I don’t care if they’re signed by Versace himself.”
    “As for you,” he told the girlfriend with a scowl, “you’ve got five seconds to put those away or I’m getting out the duct tape. And this time, it’s not going be pretty.” He pointed at Heath. “And you, keep your Sharpie to yourself.”
    As the couple in front of him finally turned around and did what they were told, Heath took a long sip of Lyric’s drink. Then nearly spewed it when the flight attendant held up his hands and said, “People, this is not Playboy One. Hugh Hefner is not on this airplane, and God willing, he never will be. Which means there will be no more nudity on this airplane. Do you understand me? No. More. Nudity.”
    “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