Chapter 20
BORN READY, BABY
DALLAS
My truck rumbled to a stop in front of a converted warehouse in Ybor City. It was two stories, and faded graffiti stretched across one side of the building.
“This is you?” I asked, staring up at the building.
“This is me.” Davina was already unbuckling her seatbelt, keys jingling in her hand. “Try not to look so confused. It's not a good look on you.”
“I'm... recalibrating my expectations.”
She shot me a look that could have curdled milk. “And what exactly were you expecting? A penthouse with a butler named Reginald who serves champagne on a silver tray?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a gated community with a guard who checks IDs and judges visitors based on the value of their car.” I killed the engine, slid out of the truck, and followed her through the entrance. “You know, rich people stuff.”
“Rich people stuff,” she repeated flatly, jabbing the elevator button inside the lobby. “Is that the technical term?”
“I believe it's in the dictionary right between ridiculous assumptions and foot in mouth disease.”
She laughed.
The elevator arrived with a shudder, and Davina stepped in without hesitation, which told me either the thing was safer than it looked or she had a death wish.
“You coming?” She held the door open, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Or are you scared of elevators too?”
“I'm not scared of anything.”
“Commitment,” she said sweetly, a teasing smile spreading across her face.
“That has nothing to do with fear. That is a lifestyle choice.”
The elevator lurched upward, and I grabbed the railing, making Davina smirk.
The doors opened, and I stepped inside, prepared to see something that matched her success: marble countertops, designer furniture, maybe one of those ridiculous kitchen islands that cost more than my first car.
Instead, I found myself standing in what was essentially a very nice, very modest loft apartment.
Don't get me wrong, it was beautiful. Exposed brick walls, original hardwood floors, ceiling beams that had probably been supporting this building since before my grandparents were born.
Afternoon light streamed through massive industrial windows, casting sunlight across a living space that was warm and lived-in. It was nothing like what I'd expected from a woman who ran a multimillion-dollar fashion empire.
The furniture was comfortable but not extravagant. There was a deep blue sectional, a coffee table covered in fashion magazines, a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks and photo frames, and a collection of shot glasses from all around the world.
The kitchen was small and separated from the living area by a breakfast bar lined with mismatched stools. There was a single orchid sitting on the counter, and the refrigerator was covered in sticky notes.
“This is...” I started, then stopped, genuinely at a loss.
“Not what you expected?” She kicked off her shoes by the door, adding them to a small pile. “Let me guess, you thought I'd have a mansion. Maybe a home theater. Definitely a pool shaped like a dollar sign.”
“I didn't think dollar sign,” I protested weakly. “But maybe... I don't know. More.”
She turned to face me, arms crossed, and her expression softened. “Want to know a secret about me, Dallas Dodger?”
“Desperately.”
“I grew up with nothing.” She said it simply, without self-pity. “Like, actually nothing. My parents worked three jobs between them just to keep the lights on. I wore hand-me-downs from cousins I'd never met. Christmas presents came from the church donation bin.”
I stayed quiet, sensing she needed to get this out.
“When I started making money, real money, the first thing I did was buy my parents a house.” She moved to the breakfast bar, running her fingers along the worn wood.
“Nothing crazy. Just a nice place in a good neighborhood where my dad could finally have a garage for his tools, and my mom could plant a garden.”
“That's...” I searched for the right word. “Really incredible.”
“Then my sister decided she wanted to be a doctor.” A smile tugged at her lips.
“She's brilliant, but med school isn't cheap, and I wasn't about to let her drown in student loans for the next thirty years. So I pay for it. The rest goes back into the business, into my employees, into charities.” She shrugged.
“I don't need a mansion. I don't want a mansion. I just need a place that feels like home.”
I looked around the loft with new eyes, seeing it differently now.
“You're not what I expected,” I said quietly.
“Is that a compliment or an insult? I genuinely can't tell with you.”
“Compliment.” I met her eyes, and for once, I wasn't hiding behind sarcasm. “Definitely a compliment.”
I cleared my throat. “So, this is where the magic happens? The fashion empire headquarters?”
“This is it.” She gestured vaguely. “This building is my whole operation. Business below, living above, and one of my offices is up here.”
“Very you,” I observed.
I glanced around, noticing the absence of any furry creatures. “Where's the dog?” I asked. “And the foster cat?”
“Ricky and Karen are at my friend Skyla’s place,” Davina said, moving toward the kitchen. “She watched them while I was in Vegas. I'll pick them up later once we get settled.”
“Ah.” I nodded, oddly disappointed. “So I get a grace period before the real interrogation begins.”
“Ricky's going to hate you,” she said cheerfully, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “Fair warning. He hates everyone at first.”
“Can't wait to meet him.”
While she headed toward her bedroom to start packing, I wandered the living space, drawn to the gallery wall I'd noticed earlier. Photos covered the walls, some framed, some just pinned up with pushpins, creating a collage of moments that told the story of her life.
In every single photo, she looked alive.
There were photos with people too. An older couple, probably her parents. A childhood photo of her with a younger girl, who was probably her sister. Brooke was in at least a dozen shots spanning what looked like years of friendship.
“Snooping?”
I turned to find her leaning against the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed, but her expression was more curious than annoyed.
“Observing,” I corrected.
She walked over to stand beside me, close enough that I could smell her shampoo.
“That's Morocco,” she said, pointing to a photo of her in a marketplace. “I went for a fashion sourcing trip and ended up staying three weeks. The food was incredible.”
“You've been everywhere.”
“Not everywhere. But a lot of places.” She touched a photo of herself, her expression wistful. “I promised myself when I was a kid, eating dinner at a soup kitchen, that one day I'd see the world.”
“And you're doing it.”
“I'm trying.” She turned to look at me, bumping her shoulder against my arm, a casual touch that sent electricity skating across my skin. “Now help me pack. I need to grab enough clothes for six months minimum.”
“That's going to be a lot of trips up and down that elevator.”
“Good thing I married a man with muscles.” She headed back to the bedroom. “There are boxes in the hall closet. I'll need a few for shoes alone.”
“How many shoes can one person possibly own?”
Her laugh echoed from the bedroom.
Over the next hour, I learned several important things about my fake wife.
First, she wasn't exaggerating about the shoes. The woman had an entire closet dedicated to footwear.
Second, she had an entire drawer dedicated to what she called comfort clothes—oversized sweaters, worn-in leggings, and soft cotton t-shirts that she apparently considered essential to her mental health.
Third, packing with Davina was an exercise in controlled chaos.
She'd start filling one suitcase, get distracted by a piece of clothing that sparked a memory, tell me a fifteen-minute story about where she bought it and what she was doing at the time, then forget what she'd already packed and start over.
By the time we'd finished, we had four massive suitcases, three boxes of what she called essentials, and one garment bag that she'd threatened me with bodily harm if I wrinkled.
“Ready?” she asked, surveying the pile with the calm authority of a general reviewing her troops.
I looked at the mountain of luggage. “Born ready, baby.” I winked, and she rolled her eyes as she handed me the two heaviest bags, grabbed the garment bag, headed for the elevator, and I followed, because apparently that's what I did now.