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I plant a lingering kiss on his coffee-flavored lips. When I pull back, I say, “Good. Because no more kisses when it’s on.”
A chuckle. “We’ll see about that.” He then pulls something out of his other pocket. It’s some kind of blond-colored monstrosity. Or a dead animal.
I take a step back.
He removes his hat, replaces it with the dead animal, and resituates it.
Oh, God…
A mullet.
His smile nearly splits his face in two, his eyes dancing with humor as he watches my reaction. “Want to kiss me now?”
“Oh, hell no.”
He nearly doubles over with laughter, his mullet swinging over his shoulders.
“Hell no,” I say again, in case I wasn’t clear enough the first time, but of course I’m having a hard time not rolling with laughter too. “Take that thing off.” He can’t be serious.
“I need to be undercover.”
“You look like the Tiger King guy. I’m not going on a date with Joe Exotic.”
He sobers a little, wiping a tear from his eye. “Joe who?”
“The Tiger guy on Netflix,” I say, futilely. He has no idea who I’m talking about. I really have watched too much Netflix.
“Does he date hot women in black dresses?”
Now, I’m the one laughing. Not even close. “Look him up next time you get the chance.”
“Deal. As long as I can wear the mullet.”
I sigh. “Fine.” He is right—it will keep him from being noticed.
He adds another condition. “And you also wear those boots.”
Crap, the boots. I lift one up to look at it. “I found them in the closet. I need to put them back.”
“I like them. Wear them.”
“I think they’re Ruby’s or something.” Though really, they could have also been Rose’s or Magnolia’s.
“That she probably hasn’t worn in twenty years. She won’t notice.”
I don’t know. Women notice these things. But he’s right about that too. They do look cute. And are appropriate for a country bar. I can put them back as soon as we get home.
He doesn’t give me time to overthink, just grabs my good hand and kisses the top of it before he pulls me out the door.
Okay, fine. He’ll get his way with this too…like everything else over the past twenty-four hours.
Why break trend?
We pullinto a parking spot along the front of Southern Roots, and Willie Nelson’s voice starts to rise. Jake punches a button to silence him. “Ready?” he says, pulling the mustache from his pocket. As he goes to press it into place, I snatch his forearm.
His eyebrows pinch together.
I go in for one last kiss. Savor it. Wipe the edge of my top lip in case I smeared red. “Okay, now you can put it on.”
