Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

“YES.” Lyric pointed to the door. “GET. OUT. OF. HERE. NOW.”

Grabbing onto the toilet paper holder for support, he hefted himself up and slipped out the door.

She barely took the time to fumble the door closed behind him before liquid hit water. He laughed to himself, then shrugged out of his shirt. Lyric might not have realized it yet, but there was no way in hell she could walk through the airport in that dress with a slit that revealed pretty much everything. And no way he would let her.

Hanging his shirt over the top of the stall door, he said, “You’re going to need this.”

She didn’t say a word, just kept on doing what she was doing.

Figuring he’d wash his hands while he waited, Heath turned around to find four smiling women of various ages—ranging from seventeenish to eighty—staring at his bare chest. He shot them the smile that his publicist’s focus group research had found appealed most to adult women, children under the age of two, and men who’d served in the military. Then, just to give them a thrill, he ran his hand down his abs. They were particularly washboardy at the moment, owing to the extra core and punishing upper-body workouts he’d added to combat the stress and boredom of convalescence.

“Wow.” The octogenarian’s somewhat milky-blue eyes went wide. She opened her cavernous black purse and pulled out a Sharpie. “Sign me, Deuce.”

He took the pen. Good God, he was about to sign breasts that had been around since before World War II. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

She undid the top three buttons of her white polyester blouse and was working on the fourth when he stepped closer. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got plenty of room.”

She opened her blouse, and the top of a saggy, white cotton bra peeked out above the polyester. She arched her back and stuck out her chest. “I’m ready.”

He aimed high on the décolletage, going for more collarbone than chest. With a flourish, he signed his name.

The other women lined up. When he came to the teenager, he capped the pen and shook his head. “Sorry, I only sign legal breasts. I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

“I don’t have one.”

He shrugged “Then I’m sorry, honey. You’ll have to catch me in a couple of years.” Provided he was still around and his signature was still something to get worked up about.

The latch to the stall behind him finally clicked, and the door swung open. Lyric leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. His shirt still hung on the door. Chunks of ripped duct tape dotted her thighs, while strips of her dress sagged at odd angles. She looked like she’d just gone three rounds with a rabid beaver—and lost. “Wow, Heath. Thanks for that. It was better than my first white dwarf.”

The three women turned to him as one, eyes wide.

“She’s into little people,” he said with a shrug and an I-don’t-get-it lift of his brows. “I don’t judge.” Then he grabbed his T-shirt and handed it to Lyric. “Put this on.”

“Good idea.” Lyric took the shirt and once again disappeared into the stall. “I tried to get some of this tape off, but it’s too sticky. Especially the parts you got wet,” she called over the closed door.

“I told you to hold still.”

“You’re right, you did. Did you get it all out of your mouth? I read that ingestion of even small amounts of polyethylene causes impotence.”

The words had barely sunk in before he was running to the nearest trash can and spitting for all he was worth. Then, with the speed and efficiency of a man guarding his manhood, he gulped handfuls of water, swished, and spit some more. He repeated several times.

“Just kidding,” Lyric called from the stall.

He paused to glare at the stall door, water dribbling down his chin. That was so not funny. She was going to pay for it too. Maybe not now … but someday.

Of the three ladies, Grandma recovered from his burst of impotence-induced fear first. “Here.” Reaching into her voluminous purse a second time, she pulled out a travel bottle of Tuck’s Hemorrhoid Pads and handed it to him. “Use this.”

“Um … I don’t think that’s her problem.”

She leaned into him and in a loud whisper said, “It’s fingernail-polish remover.”

“Really?” He took the bottle. “How’d you get that through security?”

“I’m a victim of racial profiling. Just because I’m an old white lady, they don’t think I’m a terrorist.” She patted her purse. “I could have an Uzi in here and no one would care.”

He glanced into the open purse just to make sure. While there were lots of pill bottles, pairs of glasses, and some newspaper clippings, he didn’t see any sign of automatic weapons.

“I could be a terrorist.” She closed her purse and shoved it up on her shoulder. “I’d make a great terrorist.”