Thank the Lord it’s a short ride to the store—a mere eight-minute drive—because Duke makes a show of preparing his ensemble. He fluffs the black wig, which turns out to be a mullet. Then pulls it over his head, fitting it into place, smoothing down the many flyaways.
He immediately plunks on the baseball cap, bending the red brim to his liking, and slides on sunglasses.
“Yeah. You don’t stand out like a sore thumb at all.” I roll my eyes so hard I actually feel guilty, grabbing my purse from its spot on the floor in the back seat. When I lean back to grab it, my nose gets an introduction to his arm—to his cologne and freshly showered skin—before I sit up again, purse now in my possession.
Dang, he smells good.
Duke is still messing with his hat and wig when I shove open my door, impatient to get inside and get this over with.
“Hey, wait for me.” He has to scuttle to catch up. The outfit he’s got on will surely get more attention than he thinks it will. I mean, seriously, a bright blue T-shirt with Mickey Mouse on the front, cargo shorts, red sneakers, that god-awful wig, the hat, and the sunglasses?
I pick up my pace, grabbing a grocery cart as soon as I walk through the entrance, the doors barely sliding open fast enough for me. Push in the direction of the fruits and vegetables since that’s where I usually begin and where the majority of his wants/needs are on his list.
Superfoods and lots of them.
I grab spinach and toss it in the cart, then kale and a head of romaine lettuce. Wheeling around the veggie island, I ignore the giant child trailing me.
Duke tosses in cherry tomatoes and a few large tomatoes.
He grabs the cart and begins pushing it beside me, our four hands clutching the handle all at the same time.
“I wanna grab some carrots.”
“I have carrots.”
He side-eyes me through his dark sunglasses. “Regular-sized carrots?”
I sigh. “No, Duke, the petite kind.”
“Shh,” he chastises me, nudging me with his meaty elbow. “Don’t use my name in public, please.”
“Fine. What should I call you?”
He seems to consider this. “Let’s come up with a nickname.”
Oh, brother—just what we need. “How about Rick?”
“Rick?” He scoffs, steering us toward the cheese counter. “That’s an actual person’s name.”
“So?”
“So. I was thinkin’ something like Steele Dragon or Night Hawk.”
Of all the things I was expecting him to say, wanting to be called Steele Dragon was not one of them.
“Fine.” I nod. “I’ll call you Steele Dragon. Are you happy now?”
He shrugs, nudging me again, this time not on purpose. There is simply no room for both of us to be steering this cart at the same time.
I stop walking, halting the cart. “What’s the issue?”
“Hearing it out loud just doesn’t have the same ring to it as it did inside my head,” he muses with a pout. At the same time, his hand reaches for a bag of full-sized carrots.
Huffing, I give the cart a shove to put it in motion. “By the time we come up with a nickname for you, we’ll be done here.”
“Biff Tannon.”
“No.”