Kayden
Rhys stood there, looking completely stiff and deeply uncomfortable. The boutique owner had forced him into a slightly outdated, patterned tweed driving cap and a vintage brown leather jacket that completely altered his usual sleek, athletic aesthetic.
But the absolute crown jewels of the disguise were on his face: he had applied a thick, bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache right above his top lip, paired with a slightly messy, dark brown hairpiece that peeked out from beneath the cap, completely obscuring his famous dark hair.
"Do not say a word," Rhys warned, his deep voice sounding incredibly bizarre coming from a man who currently looked like a retired European soccer coach from the nineteen-eighties.
"Oh my God," I gasped, my shoulders shaking violently as I leaned against a nearby clothing rack for support. "Rhys... you look like you're about to sell me a used car or complain about the local transit system. It's absolutely beautiful."
