Page 6 of Fashionista's Playbook

“It’s not that hard to figure out.”

“You’re not going to win. He gets off on this knight-in-shining-armor shit.”

Travis cut a hard glance at the guy in the SUV, who winked at me from behind a half rolled up tinted window. “Just call him Lancelot. Wrap it up, bro.”

Some people watched curiously, some snapped pictures on their cameras, some were probably recording.

Others—gawked.

Old, humiliating memories gurgled up and I’d do just about anything to get away from the attention.

“Ignore my brother—Vincent. I’ll throw in the Range. So long as you work for me you can drive it.”

“Hey!” Vincent shouted with mock insult.

I darted a glance at the steadily growing crowd. I needed the cash and wasn’t this a perfect time to prove I had moved on past all the high school trauma? “Fine. We can try it for a few weeks and see how things go. If it doesn’t work, go our separate ways with no drama.”

He extended a large hand. “Welcome to the team.”

What’s happening Outlaw fam? It’s been pretty quiet around our favorite pig skin rustlers. Unless we count the rumors of the retirement for the guys’ fearless leader.

That’s right folks, this could be Jones’ last year. Heard it here first. So start scoping out the free agent quarterbacks for next year that might get our jersey-chasing hearts pumping.

Speaking of sexy men on the field, a lot of you have been sending us pictures of Tightest of the Tight Ends in a parking lot with a tow truck, his felon brother, and one curvaceous, unknown female. For those that know the history, never fear, I don’t think he or his brother had anything to do with the car in question.

Looks like she was getting repo’d and these two brothers know a thing or two about that, so were just helping her out.

He can lend me a hand, or two, especially if he’s cradling passes like he’s known to. Sexy and chivalrous, rawr.

CHAPTER THREE

Travis

It wasn’t that long ago my brother and I had our only mode of transportation repossessed. We were just teenagers. Our parents had just died, and there wasn’t much money. Some asshole from the bank took the car—the only way for Vincent to get to work.

If Vin didn’t work, there wasn’t money for me to play football, to pay the bills, to eat. That car had been our lifeline.

Those days were dark and led to decisions, good and bad, that brought me to where I was. The miles build the man, and all that shit. I owned my mistakes, and made up for them as opportunities presented.

Like Moriah the jewelry expert with the killer smile and deadly curves. She wasn’t hard to look at, but more, she represented a chance to fix something from my past that still sat wrong with me.

I had no idea what I was looking for in a personal assistant. But Moriah checked all my boxes.

“You like ‘em thick, T, admit it. You hired her because you’re a softie and she’s sexy as fuck.” Vincent sat on the bar stool at the kitchen island, his arm laid across the marble as a tattoo artist worked on covering up some of his prison ink.

“Linc’s right, I need to focus on the game, not let all the mundane shit get in the way.”

“You wouldn’t have to pay a girlfriend.” Jace, the tattoo artist, spoke up from behind his medical mask. “Just sayin. My girl does all my shit for me. Laundry, checks the mail, cooks, blows me…everything. I pay the bills.”

“That’snotan assistant.” I rolled my eyes, snatched the tennis ball from the counter. The rhythmic up and down of tossing andcatching it calmed me. I’d never been able to sit still. Used to drive my mom—and my teachers—nuts.

“Bullshit excuses, man. We can handle everything you’ve got going on. The team is just making sureIdon’t screw shit up for you and for them.” Vin’s words were filled with as much animosity toward the team as self-loathing. “I told you playing for this ass clown Yates was a bad idea.”

I threw my gaze between him and Jace then made awhat the fuck are you doingface. “Bro, don’t talk shit about the man who signs my checks.”Not in front of other people.

“That bastard Mercer is good at getting people to do what he wants them to do.”

No arguing that; it’s how I’d landed in Texas in the first place.

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