13. My husband, My Enemy, My Problem
MY HUSBAND, MY ENEMY, MY PROBLEM
DALLAS
The Las Vegas Strip glittered below, headlights crawling along the boulevard thirty floors down. I stood at the window, shirt already off, thinking about how I'd flown into this city as a bachelor and was leaving as a married man.
I stripped off my pants and boxers, catching my reflection in the glass, then thought better of it. Sober Davina would absolutely murder me if I slept naked. I dug through my bag, pulled out a pair of grey sweatpants, and put them on.
The bathroom door creaked, and I twisted to see Davina peeking through a narrow crack between the door and frame, her eyes carefully averted.
“Turn around,” she ordered, just her face visible through the opening.
I smirked. “Why?”
“Because...” She sighed, exasperated. “I wasn't planning on sharing a room with anyone, so I didn't pack appropriate sleepwear.”
“You do remember that we slept naked together last night, right?” I couldn't resist pointing that out, and the memory of her bare skin sent blood rushing south.
“No,” she scowled, her cheeks flushing. “I do not remember that. Black out drunk, remember? Now turn around.”
I raised an eyebrow, enjoying her discomfort far too much. “What if I said I wanted to refresh my memory?”
“What if I said I'd call hotel security and tell them my temporary husband is being a peeping Tom?” she shot back, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.
I was growing on her.
I turned around, facing the window, lifting my hands in surrender. “Okay, not looking.”
The door creaked wider, followed by the soft padding of her bare feet against the carpet.
“Okay. I'm good.”
I spun around, perhaps a bit too eagerly, to find her in the opposite bed from the one we'd shared last night. She’d pulled the covers up to her chest, but I could see the delicate black straps of a silky nightgown and the black lace at the top.
Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders.
She'd removed her makeup, and without it, she looked younger.
The sight hit me square in the chest as heat spread through me, traveling south.
She was so fucking beautiful.
She settled against the pillows, her gaze lifted, traveled down my chest, and suddenly widened.
“Oh my freaking God.” Her expression shifted from shock to appreciation to mortification as she yanked the sheets up to cover her eyes.
“Put that...away,” she pointed vaguely in my direction without looking.
My gaze followed hers, and I realized my cock was showing its excitement through the thin material of my sweatpants.
“Where would you like me to put it?” I laughed, dropping my voice an octave. “I'll let you pick.” I winked.
One eye appeared above the sheet, narrowing as the sexual innuendo dawned on her. “In a wood chipper.”
“Ouch, and here I thought we were bonding back at the casino. You know, with the whole defending your honor thing.”
“That wasn't defending my honor,” she said, finally lowering the sheet to her chin. “That was you going all caveman because someone insulted your property.”
I moved to the opposite side of her bed, enjoying the way she tracked my movement like I might pounce at any second. “It was about respect,” I said, my voice serious for a moment. “And no one talks to my wife that way, fake or not.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded as I reached for her sheets.
“Going to bed.”
She jerked the sheets from my grasp like I was about to steal her last French fry. “Not in this bed.”
My lips curved into a slow smile. “Husbands and wives should always share a bed,” I teased, leaning closer until I could smell the mint of her toothpaste. “Otherwise, the marriage could end in divorce.”
“Well, lucky for us,” she scowled, though her pulse visibly quickened at the base of her throat, “that's the end game. Fake husbands sleep in their own bed.” She pointed to the bed we'd shared last night. “Over there.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to my dick before snapping back to my face, her cheeks flushing deeper. “And take that with you.”
I straightened, crossing my arms over my chest. Her eyes darted to the movement, lingering on my biceps for a fraction too long. “You do know that tomorrow evening we leave as husband and wife, right? People are going to expect a certain... closeness.”
“Don't worry,” she sneered, but there was less bite in it than before. “I can play my part in public as the perfect wife, but in private, you're still just Dallas, and this is still a fake marriage. K?”
She shoved a pillow at my chest. “Go to bed, Dallas.”
I caught the pillow, letting my fingers brush against hers. “Sweet dreams, Davidson.”
I crossed to my own bed, very aware of her eyes on my back as I moved. Dropping onto the mattress, I settled against the pillows, then shot her a sidelong glance.
I stretched out, folding my arms behind my head. “So,” I drawled into the silence. “Want to play a game?”
“Absolutely not.” Her response was immediate and suspicious.
I grinned at the ceiling. “Not that kind of game, Mrs. Dodger. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“My mind is perfectly wholesome, thank you very much, and stop calling me that.”
“But it's your name now,” I pointed out, rolling onto my side to face her. “At least for the next few weeks. Speaking of which, we should probably know more about each other than just... well, what we apparently learned last night.”
She shifted against her pillows, and I caught the rustle of silk. “What are you suggesting?”
“Twenty questions. We take turns asking each other stuff. Basic getting-to-know-you things that actual married couples would know.” I paused. “Unless you want to show up to family dinners unable to answer what my favorite color is.”
“Do you have family dinners?” She sounded skeptical.
“That counts as your first question. And yes, my mom hosts them every Sunday. She's going to be so excited to meet my wife.” I let that sink in for a moment. “My turn. “What's your favorite color?”
She blinked. “Really? That's your hard-hitting investigative question?”
“I'm starting easy.” I adjusted the pillow beneath my head. “Besides, color preferences reveal more than you'd think.”
She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Fine. Green. Forest green, not that bright neon stuff.”
“Interesting.” I nodded thoughtfully. “I pegged you for a pink girl.”
“That's because you're making assumptions,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Which is exactly why we need rules for this little game.”
“Ground rules?” I grinned. “You really can't help yourself with the structure, can you?”
“No personal questions about exes, nothing inappropriate, and definitely nothing about...” she gestured vaguely toward my lower half, “...that situation you've got going on over there.”
I laughed, enjoying how flustered she got. “That situation has a name, you know.”
“I'm sure it does,” she deadpanned. “And I'm sure you've told many women all about it.”
“Jealous, wifey?”
She rolled her eyes. “My turn. What do you do besides fighting? Your career can't last forever.”
“Getting practical already. Real wife energy.” I shifted, considering her question. “I’ve already started moving into other things like commercials, television, movies, and I've got investments, real estate mostly.”
“Smart,” she said, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Don't act so shocked. There's a brain behind these abs.” I tapped my temple. “My turn. Why fashion?”
She smiled. “At eighteen, I was picked up by a modeling agency as a plus-size model, but I wanted more. I wanted something that was mine, and I love making women feel sexy and attractive.” She paused. “Plus, I'm good at it.”
“Humble, too.”
“Says the man with an ego the size of Montana.'“
“Fair point.” I conceded with a chuckle. “Your turn.”
“Siblings?”
“One older brother, Austin, and one younger sister, Cheyanne. She's going to love you.” I couldn't help my smile, picturing my sister's reaction. “She's always wanted a sister-in-law to gang up on me with.”
“I think I'll like her already.” Davina's expression softened momentarily before she caught herself.
“You would. She's as bossy as you are.” I let my gaze travel over her face. “What about you? Any siblings?”
“One sister, younger. She's in med school.” There was so much pride in her voice. “Our parents are basically bursting with professional pride between us.”
“Ah, high achievers. Your turn.”
She studied me for a moment. “What are you most afraid of?”
I whistled low. “Getting deep already.”
“You can pass if it's too much for your masculine sensibilities.”
I considered deflecting with a joke, but there was something about her that made me feel comfortable enough to be honest. “Wasted potential. Not living up to what I could be.”
Her eyebrows rose, clearly not expecting that answer.
“What?” I challenged. “Thought I'd say spiders?”
“I figured you'd say commitment.” She offered a small smile.
“Well, look at me now. A married man.” I lifted my hand, wiggling my ring finger. “Your turn. Same question.”
She hesitated. “Failure and disappointing the people who count on me.” She let out a small laugh. “That's probably why I'm such a control freak.”
“At least you admit it.” My voice dropped lower as I took in the sight of her, hair tousled against the pillow, cheeks flushed with amusement. “My turn. Do you ever... let go of that control?”
Her laughter faded. “Sometimes.”
“Like last night?” I asked, unable to help myself.
She bit her lip. “That was different. I was...”
“Blackout drunk, I know.” I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “But even drunk people don't do things they'd never consider sober.”
Silence.
“My turn,” she finally said, her voice quieter. “Why did you really step in with that guy at the casino? You could have just walked away.”
“I already told you why.”
“Tell me again.”
I turned my head to face her again. “Because he was being an ass, and because...” I paused, feeling the same possessive, protective feeling I felt when I heard that asshole disrespecting her.
“You are my wife. It is my job to stand up for you. My job is to protect you even when you don’t need it, and I take that job very seriously. ”
She swallowed, her throat working. “Your turn.”
“If we weren't in this fake marriage situation...” I locked eyes with her, “Would you have given me your number? If we'd met normally?”
She laughed, the tension breaking. “God, no.”
“Ouch,” I clutched my chest in mock pain. “My ego.”
“You're not my type,” she said, but I suspected that she wasn't being entirely truthful.
“Not into successful, handsome athletes?”
“Not into arrogant men with massive egos,” she countered. “My turn. What's your biggest regret?”
I exhaled slowly. That was a loaded question. “Probably fighting in that match after my knee injury. The doctor said not to, but I was too stubborn. Cost me six months of my career.”
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Stubborn seems on brand for you. Your turn to ask.”
I shifted onto my side, facing her. “What's something you're secretly good at that would surprise people?”
The sheets rustled as she turned toward me. “I can fix cars. My dad worked on cars to bring in extra money when I was a kid. I spent my weekends helping him. I can rebuild a carburetor blindfolded.”
“No way,” I said, genuinely surprised. “The princess fashion designer can get her hands dirty?”
“Not a princess, but true.” She paused. “My turn. What's something you want that you don't tell people about?”
I hesitated. “A legacy beyond fighting. I want to be remembered for something meaningful.” I cleared my throat. “People see the showman, the magazine covers. Sometimes I wonder if anyone sees the rest.”
“I see it,” she said, her voice softer.
A warm feeling spread through my chest. “If you weren't a fighter, what would you be doing?”
“It was my turn,” I laughed softly. “But… Probably teaching, maybe. History. I have a degree most people don't know about.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Bachelor's in History from UF. Graduated with honors while training.”
“Dallas Dodger, secret intellectual. The tabloids would explode.” There was genuine admiration in her voice.
“My turn,” I said. “What makes you happiest? Not work or success, just pure joy.”
She was quiet for so long, I thought she might not answer. “Thunderstorms,” she finally said. “Sitting on a porch with a blanket, watching lightning. It's the only time my brain stops planning and just... exists.”
I filed that information away. “Interesting.”
“My turn. What's your guilty pleasure?”
“Reality dating shows,” I admitted without hesitation. “I've seen every season of The Bachelor. My teammates would never let me hear the end of it.”
She yawned suddenly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry. It's been a long day.”
“We should sleep,” I agreed, though I found myself reluctant to end our conversation. “Long day tomorrow.”
She nodded, settling deeper into her pillows. “Goodnight, Dallas.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Dodger.”
“Don't push it,” she murmured, but there was no heat in her words.
I reached over and turned off the lamp between our beds, plunging the room into darkness except for the neon glow filtering through the curtains. In the dim light, I could just make out her silhouette as she turned onto her side, facing away from me.
I lay there in the dark, listening to her breathing gradually slow and deepen.
I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come immediately.
In the faint neon glow, I watched her chest rise and fall with each breath.
Soon we'd fly home as husband and wife. Tonight, for the first time, I wondered what it might be like if this wasn't just for show.