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Jake doesn’t give any commentary, just shoots straight to a closet on our left and pulls out a few boxes. He rifles through one of the bigger ones and I stand over him to get a better look. Old hats, wigs, costumes. I can’t help but laugh, despite all the death around me. “What is this stuff?”
“My dad liked to dress up for Halloween,” he says, focused. “He has a ton of shit in here.”
“I see that.” Must be where the fake beard came from.
He spots something near the bottom and victoriously pulls it out. It looks like a rodent. “What, dare I ask, is that?”
He cracks an amused smile. “A Fu Manchu.”
“A…what?”
He straightens it out and drapes it over his top lip, allowing the fake mustache to settle into place. It’s like a really bad goatee, without the hair on the chin. I expel a short laugh. “That looks horrible.” And I hope he seriously doesn’t expect me to kiss him with that thing on.
“That’s the point.” He tucks it into his back pocket. Continues digging. Pulls out a belt with a huge buckle and slings it over his shoulder.
“Going for the nineties cowboy look?” I muse.
“Whatever keeps me from being recognized.”
I kneel and start digging through a different box with my good hand. “You’re on the right track.” My fingertips brush over stiff fabric and I pull it out. It’s a navy button down shirt with embroidered cream arrows over the pecs. Piping in the same color encircle the cuffs of the sleeves.
You can’t get more nineties country than this.
“Here,” I say with a smirk, draping it over the belt on his shoulder. Dust dances around us with the movement, making my nose itch. That should complete the look.
He collects one last thing: A red bandana. The mischievous glint is back in his eye as he stands. “Just try and keep your hands off me once I’ve put all this on, okay?”
“It’ll be hard,” I shoot back. “But I’ll manage.”
We make our way back to the kitchen and Preston is at the bar with his coffee in one hand, his phone in another. “Hey, man,” Jake says. “Is there a butler around here?”
Preston scoffs, says distractedly, “I don’t let them come in.”
“Oh.” He holds up the shirt and bandana. “I need to get these cleaned real quick so I can wear them.”
Preston points to a room just off the kitchen. “Washer and dryer are through there.”
Jake hesitates a moment like he wants to say more, but makes his way to the room and flicks the light on. Stares at the washer. Opens the lid and drops the shirt and bandana in. Stares some more at the buttons. The bottles above. He picks the fabric softer and reads.
I watch with a grin. He has no idea what he’s doing. The man has probably never washed a piece of clothing in his life. But why would he? He’s never had to.
I let the staring and brooding go on a little longer, purely for my enjoyment, and then swoop in to help. “Here,” I say, snatching the Tide container off the shelf and unscrew the lid. “Use this one.”
He gives me a sheepish grin. “Thanks.”
At least he didn’t whine about not knowing how to do this. At least he tried. I pour a small amount into the cap and hand it over for him to dump in. “You’re not washing much, so a little will do.”
He stares at it, then the washer. “Where do I put it?”
I try not to laugh-groan and point into the washer. “Just right in.”
He does as instructed, and I swear on my life as I watch him turn the cap over and wait patiently until the last bit of detergent strings out and onto the nineties shirt at the bottom of the barrel, I don’t think I’ve seen anything cuter—Jake Mitchell, rich and famous Nascar driver, learning how to wash clothes for the first time. Most people learn this in middle school. At least, that’s when Mom taught me.
He then shuts the top and stares blankly at the buttons. I point to the Start button, since all the other settings seem to be right, and he punches it.
The machine whirrs to life.
He gives me a satisfied smile.
