Chapter 17
EVERYTHING IS FINE
DAVINA
The Uber ride from Tampa International to Dallas's place on Davis Island took twenty minutes. We sat in the backseat like awkward teenagers at a school dance, maintaining a careful six-inch buffer zone.
“You two just get married?” Bruno, our driver, asked, eyes meeting ours in the rearview mirror.
“Vegas,” Dallas said smoothly, his hand finding mine on the seat. “Spur of the moment thing.”
“That's beautiful, man. Young love.” Bruno sighed wistfully. “My wife and I eloped, too. Twenty-three years ago. Best decision I ever made.”
I felt Dallas's fingers tighten around mine. “Hear that, Honey? Twenty-three years. That's the goal.”
I kicked his ankle. Hard. He didn't even flinch, just grinned at me with those stupidly perfect teeth.
Every time we hit a pothole, we'd bounce closer together, our thighs pressing against each other, then immediately spring apart.
By the third pothole, Dallas leaned over and whispered, “If you keep jumping away from me like I have the plague, Bruno is going to think our marriage is already in trouble.”
“Our marriage is in trouble,” I hissed back under my breath. “It's fake.”
“He doesn't know that. Just…” He slid his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. “There. Much more convincing.”
I was going to kill him. After I stopped noticing how good he smelled, even after a cross-country flight.
“You okay?” Dallas asked as we turned onto a tree-lined street.
“Fine,” I lied. “Just wondering what level of bachelor pad horror I'm about to walk into. On a scale of forgot to do dishes to possible biohazard requiring hazmat suits, where are we landing?”
He had the audacity to look offended, his hand going to his chest like I'd wounded him. “I'm not that bad.”
“You're a professional wrestler who travels three hundred days a year.
You probably don't even remember what your kitchen looks like.” I watched the houses roll by, each one more charming than the last. “The last guy I knew with that schedule had a mattress on the floor, used pizza boxes as furniture, and I'm pretty sure something was growing in his sink.”
“Wow. Zero faith in me.” But he was smiling as the Uber pulled up to a multimillion-dollar architectural fortress located directly on the bay. It was beautiful.
I stared. Blinked. Stared some more. “This is yours?”
“What, expecting a cave with a neon beer sign and a weight bench in the living room?”
“Yes.” I climbed out of the car, studying the house. “Where's the wrestling ring in the front yard and the life-size cardboard cutout of yourself?”
Dallas grabbed both our bags. “Those are all inside.”
“You're joking.”
“I'm joking.” He unlocked the door and held it open, his smile turning almost shy. “Ladies first, Mrs. Dodger.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Not until you stop blushing when I do.”
I stepped inside and stopped. It was... cozy. The living room had a comfortable-looking sectional in soft gray. Throw pillows that matched. A coffee table made of reclaimed wood, topped with a few books and a decorative bowl. There were bookshelves with actual books on them, not just trophies.
A throw blanket was draped artfully over the back of the couch. The kind of throw blanket that was both functional and aesthetically pleasing.
“I…” I turned to him, genuinely confused. “Did you hire someone to stage this? Are you trying to sell the place?”
He laughed, setting our bags down with a soft thud on the hardwood floors. “Nope. This is how I live.”
“But you're never here.” I moved further into the room. “This place looks lived in. There's a candle on the mantle that's been burned. Someone has been burning candles in here, Dallas.”
“Guilty.” He shrugged out of his jacket, and I tried very hard not to notice how his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, or how his arms looked like they could bench-press a small car, or how the lighting in here made his eyes look even more blue.
I failed at all of these attempts. “I like coming home to a home that doesn't feel like a hotel room.”
“But…” I gestured around the room. “There are throw pillows. In coordinating patterns.”
“Is that so weird?”
“For a guy who gets hit in the face for a living? Yes!”
“Exactly why it needs to be comfortable when I am here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I gave my mom and sister my credit card about a year ago, told them to make it livable. They went a little overboard.”
“A little?” I walked further in, running my hand along the back of the sofa. The fabric was soft. “Dallas, this place looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It's shocking.”
I picked up a framed photo from the shelf. Dallas, with his arm around a petite woman who had his same blue eyes and warm smile, and a younger girl. All three of them were grinning at the camera. “Your mom and sister?”
“Yeah. That's Mom and Cheyanne.” His voice went soft. “Photos from Cheyanne's high school graduation.”
Great. Now, he wasn't just annoyingly attractive; he was also a family man.
“Stop being likable,” I muttered, setting the frame down. “It's very inconvenient for our fake marriage.”
“Noted. I'll work on being more unlikable tomorrow.” He checked his phone. “It’s almost 3 a.m. You must be exhausted.”
I was about to protest that I'd slept the entire flight, but a yawn ambushed me mid-breath. “Traitor,” I muttered.
“Come on.” He picked up my suitcase like it weighed nothing. “Bedroom's this way.”
I followed him down a short hallway, trying not to focus on how his jeans fit. The hallway was lined with more photos, Dallas with various wrestlers I recognized, Dallas at charity events, Dallas with his arm around his mom at what looked like a fancy restaurant.
The bedroom was just as put-together as the rest of the house, a king-sized bed with a dark blue comforter.
Matching nightstands on each side of the bed, each with a lamp, and blackout curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor.
A dresser with a mirror sat against one wall, and the whole room smelled like clean laundry.
“This is yours,” he said, setting my suitcase on the bed. “Bathroom's through there. Clean towels are in the cabinet. I'll be on the couch if you need anything.”
He stopped in the doorway, his expression going unexpectedly serious. “Goodnight, wifey,” he said with a grin that was going to haunt my dreams and possibly require therapy. “Try not to snore too loud. The walls are thin, and I'd hate for the neighbors to think I'm running a lumber mill.”
I threw a pillow at him, and he caught it. “I hate you!”
“No, you don't.” He tossed the pillow back to me and closed the door before I could throw it again.
I stood there for a moment, alone in Dallas's bedroom.
Forcing myself into motion, I unzipped my suitcase and dug through it for something clean to sleep in. Everything was wrinkled from hasty packing. I found my last clean nightgown and stripped out of my clothes, shoving them back into my suitcase before sliding the silky pajamas on.
I zipped up my suitcase and strolled into the bathroom, which was also immaculate. White subway tile, a rainfall showerhead, fluffy towels folded on a shelf. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and stared at myself in the mirror.
“You're sleeping in your fake husband's bed,” I mumbled. “Alone.”
I was thirsty.
I crept out of the bedroom, padding quietly down the hallway.
A muffled grunt of discomfort echoed from the living room, followed by a curse whispered aggressively. Then another thump and what I was pretty sure was the word dammit said with the kind of venom usually reserved for traffic jams.
I peeked around the corner and found Dallas on the couch. Or rather, Dallas attempting to fit on the couch the way you might attempt to fit a Great Dane into a cat carrier.
His six-foot-four frame was folded at angles that would make a yoga instructor weep.
His legs were bent awkwardly, one massive foot braced against the armrest, the other dangling off the edge.
His head was propped on the other armrest at an angle that definitely looked like he was going to have neck pain in the morning.
The soft glow from the kitchen light cast shadows across his bare chest and abs. He was trying to arrange a throw pillow under his head, one of those small decorative ones clearly designed to look pretty rather than be used.
“Comfortable?” I asked from the doorway.
He jerked up so fast he nearly rolled off the couch, his arms windmilling for balance. “Jesus, Davina. Stealth mode much? You trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Sorry.” I wasn't sorry. I was too busy trying not to stare at his chest. “I just wanted water.”
“Kitchen's…” He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, then winced as the movement made him bang his elbow on the side table. “Ow. Dammit.”
He tried to resettle himself, which was like watching someone try to fold a fitted sheet. His foot hit the armrest. His knee banged the back cushion. His shoulder got wedged against the frame.
“Dallas, that couch is like five feet long.”
“Five and a half,” he corrected, punching the decorative pillow into submission.
“And you're…”
“Six four, yeah, I know.” He tried tucking his legs up, which only made things worse. Now he looked like a very muscular pretzel. “It's fine.”
“It's clearly not fine. You're folded up like a camping chair.” I moved into the room, crossing my arms.
“I've slept in worse places. Airport floors. Locker rooms.” He shifted again, and I heard his back pop. “This is luxury.”
“Your spine is literally curved like a question mark.”
“A very comfortable question mark.”
“Dallas…”
“Davina, I'm fine. Go get your water and go to sleep. I'll survive.” He closed his eyes like that settled it, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were hiked up by his ears, the slight grimace he couldn't hide.
This was ridiculous. We were both adults who could make reasonable decisions. Well, mostly reasonable decisions. We could share a bed platonically without it being weird.
I took a deep breath and said the words that I would definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent regret in the morning.
“Just come sleep in the bed.”
His eyes flew open. “What?”
“The bed. It's enormous. It could fit three people and still have room for a Saint Bernard.” I waved my hand dismissively. “It's ridiculous for you to suffer on the couch when there's a perfectly good king-sized mattress.”
He sat up fully now, running a hand through his hair in a way that made his bicep flex. “Are you sure?”
No. Absolutely not. This was potentially the worst idea I'd had since agreeing to this fake marriage in the first place.
“I'm sure,” I lied smoothly, lifting my chin. “But you're taking the side closest to the door. If anyone breaks in, you're the first line of defense. I'll use you as a human shield.”
“That's very strategic of you.”
“I'm full of good ideas.” I turned toward the bedroom. “Come on, husband. Let's go not sleep together.”
“That's the worst innuendo I've ever heard,” he called after me, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Then come on before I change my mind and leave you to become one with that couch.”
I heard him stand up behind me with a grunt of relief, his joints probably celebrating their freedom, and heard his footsteps following mine down the hallway.
This was fine. We were adults. Mature adults.
I climbed into the bed first, sticking to my side, positioning myself as close to the edge as I could without falling off, leaving approximately three feet of no-man’s-land between my territory and his.
Dallas followed a moment later, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled onto his side. Heat radiated off him, and I could hear every breath he made in the quiet room. My entire body was on high alert, every nerve ending on fire.
This was fine. Everything was fine. We were just two fake spouses sharing a bed. My heart was racing for no reason.
A soft snore cut through my spiral of anxiety.
I froze, listening.
Another snore.
I turned my head slowly, like I was trying not to spook a wild animal.
His face was relaxed, peaceful, his breathing deep and even. His lips were slightly parted, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting on his stomach.
Dallas was asleep.
I almost laughed out loud. “Are you kidding me right now?”
He didn't respond. He was too busy being unconscious.
I'd been over here running through worst-case scenarios, mentally preparing speeches about boundaries, wondering how I was going to survive the night without spontaneously combusting from the tension, and he'd just... passed out.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered to the ceiling.
Another soft snore was his only response.
The tension drained out of my body all at once. I rolled onto my side, facing away from him, and pulled the covers up to my chin.
Within minutes, my eyes grew heavy.
My last coherent thought before sleep claimed me was that maybe, just maybe, this fake marriage thing wouldn't be so terrible after all.