I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already taken the hat off and placed it on Dutton’s head. His eyes are wide and awestruck for a moment before the hat swallows him.
“My turn! My turn!” Dawson chants.
Duke lets Dutton have a few more seconds with the hat before giving Dawson a turn.
“Look, Mommy, I’m a weal cowboy!” he says, turning to me with a splitting grin on his cheeks.
When I remember how dirty the boys are, I feel a tinge of embarrassment that Duke is seeing them this way. They even added to the filth by spilling ketchup down their shirts from dinner in the car.
“All right, that’s enough. Give Mr. Duke his hat back,” I chide, swiping my card through the card reader.
“You try it, Mommy.” Dawson hands it out to me.
I shake my head. Duke raises a brow.
“Mommy would look so good in the hat, wouldn’t she?” he says to the boys.
I gape at him. I amnotwearing his cowboy hat, not after what happened between us a few nights ago at Lucky’s Pub.
But the twins are insistent, reaching so far over the cart that they almost fall together. Duke places his hands on the other end of the cart, keeping the wheels firmly on the floor.
“Try it! Come on, Mommy.” Dutton peers up at me with his pistachio-green eyes.
The card reader beeps and says my card has been rejected.
Great. How embarrassing.Not right now, universe. Please, not right now.
I start fishing through my purse for another card or some stray cash from my last bar shift.
“Mommy, please,pleasetry it on,” Dawson whines.
“Fine!” I say a little too loudly. I turn away from the register, grab the hat, and place it on my head.
“Yay!” The boys clap in unison. “Mommy, you look like a cowboy too.”
My eyes shift from the boys’ faces to peer up at Duke. He licks his lips, nodding. The teasing smile on his face has morphed into a smirk, his intense gaze fixed on mine.
“She looks extra beautiful, doesn’t she?” he asks the boys, who both nod.
I turn back to the register before he can catch my cheeksheat. I’m still digging through my purse, praying that a bolt of lightning might strike right now, taking out only this register to save me from the current mortification of having to log in to my bank account to see just how much is in the account.
A beep to my right drags my attention back up, and I see Duke’s credit card inserted in the machine.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I stare at his profile.
The purchase goes through, the machine spitting out the receipt to confirm it.
“Just think of it as a tip, for your service the other night,” he says.
He hands me the receipt before scanning the one item he’s holding—a twelve-pack of Budweiser.
I shove the receipt in my purse and place my clammy hands on the cart. “I don’t need another tip. I have cash. I can pay you?—”
“Darlin’, do me a favor and just accept it. The guys had a great night.”
He finishes showing his ID to the employee and pays. I’m desperate to escape so I can get home, open my wine, change into a pair of sweatpants, and hide from the confusing feelings swirling in my gut.
“Okay, well, I really appreciate it, and the next beer is on me, if you end up back at Lucky’s sometime.”
