~ Logan Carrington
“You really mislead me when we pulled up at Costumes & Toys.”
A wicked smile flashes on her face; her bouncing body moving through the automatic doors. When we pulled up to the store I thought: okay, she’s kinky and maybe it’s my lucky day. How wrong was I in thinking it had anything to do with sex?
I watch her make her way to the wall that displayed all the wigs, ignoring the urge to grab her body and tell her how fucking sexy she looked in her tight black dress and the shoes . . . don’t get me started.
“C’mon.” She gestures, calling me over. “Pick a wig.”
“A wig? When I said let’s have fun what part of that screamed wig shopping?”
She shoves a brown shaggy piece towards my chest.
“If you wanna play, you gotta keep it a secret.”
Placing a blond wig on, she turns to face me seeking my approval. I shake my head instantly—I didn’t need to be seen with Florence Henderson.
She searches the wall and grabs a pink bob.
“It’s pink.”
“Well duh. What do you think?”
“The paparazzi would find you in a heartbeat,” I tell her.
I scan the wall and notice a subtle black wig. Removing it from the hook, I place it on her hair, carefully tucking the loose strands. Her deep blue eyes stare back at me oddly. With just this one gaze, I’m taken back to a time when life wasn’t complicated. When the biggest hurdle was making it home before Mom so I could cover the gashes on my leg from when I fell over jumping off the tree to prove I could fly.
And I got this . . . all from this one stare.
“That’s better.” I smile.
“Now you.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Now stop being a baby and pick a wig.”
Considering I’d never worn a wig in my life, the choice seemed overwhelming. I settle for a dark blond wig that made me look like Justin Timberlake from his NSYNC days. It was either that or a badly cut piece that would made me a dead ringer for Ozzy Osbourne.
“Great! Now you need facial hair.”
I point to my chin. “I have facial hair.”
“Hmm yeah but not hairy enough. You need to look like a man enjoying a Saturday night in Hollywood. Not like Logan Carrington—soccer extraordinaire taking Emerson Chase out on some wild sex ride.”
I can’t hide the smirk. “We’re going on a wild sex ride?”
“Does it look like I’m dressed for a wild sex ride?” She pauses. “You know what? Don’t answer that.”
I could see the blush, yet she’s quick to busy herself, picking up a mustache that would make me look like an aging porn star.
“Is this absolutely necessary?” I ask for the final time.
Ignoring my question, she finds a hideous-looking pair of reading glasses, thrown into a clearance bin. She also pulls out a bow tie.
“We’re set!” she beams, deliriously happy for someone that looked like she should have teleported back to the seventies with her glasses.
“I have never looked more ridiculous.”