14. The Husband I Didn’t Order but Can’t Return
THE HUSBAND I DIDN’T ORDER BUT CAN’T RETURN
DAVINA
The ballroom of the Bellagio glowed with thousands of tiny lights strung across the vaulted ceiling like captured stars. I stood at the edge of the dance floor, champagne flute in hand, my hips swaying to the music. Couples twirled past in a blur.
Perfect. That was the only word for the day.
The ceremony had been perfect… And the reception was magical.
My best friend was married. Truly, genuinely, married to someone she loved and who thought she hung the moon.
I took another sip of champagne, pushing away the thought of my own wedding. If you could even call an accidental drunken night in Vegas a wedding.
“You're thinking too loud.”
The low rumble of Dallas’s voice directly behind me sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I didn't need to turn around to know he was close. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle spice of his cologne.
I did turn, though, and found myself nose-to-chest with six feet four inches of irritatingly attractive male wrapped in a tailored tuxedo.
“I wasn't thinking loudly,” I tilted my head back to meet those deep blue eyes. “I was thinking privately.”
Dallas's lips curved into that slow smile. “Your privately loud thoughts were making you frown.” He reached out to smooth the space between my eyebrows. “You're going to get wrinkles.”
I batted his hand away, trying to ignore the spark that shot through me at the contact. “I don't frown.”
“You absolutely do. You get this little crease right here.” He gestured to the spot he'd just touched. “It shows up every time you're overthinking.”
“I wasn't overthinking. I was just thinking.” I took another sip of champagne, using the glass as a barrier between us. “About how beautiful Brooke looks. How perfect everything is.”
Dallas's gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips, then lower, taking in the navy blue dress I'd designed specifically for this wedding. The silk clung to my curves before flaring at my hips, the sweetheart neckline showing just enough cleavage to be elegant.
“The bride is beautiful,” he agreed, but his eyes never left me. “But I haven't been able to take my eyes off my wife all night.”
My heart stuttered. He wasn't even attracted to me. This was all performance. Fake husband playing his role.
“Dallas…”
“Dance with me.” It wasn't a question, and before I could protest, he plucked the champagne flute from my hand and set it on a table. His hand found mine.
“I wasn't finished with that,” I protested weakly as he pulled me toward the dance floor.
“You can have more later. Right now, I want to dance with my wife.” He spun me into his arms, one hand settling at the small of my back, the other holding mine. “People are watching. We should look convincing.”
“Fake wife.” I reminded him.
I settled my free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his tuxedo. “Wouldn't want to disappoint an audience.”
“Liar,” he murmured, pulling me closer until there was barely any space between us. “You forgot all about them.”
“Your ego is showing, Dodger.”
“So is your pulse.” His thumb brushed directly over the spot on my wrist where my heart was beating entirely too fast. “Right there. Racing.”
“That's from the champagne.”
“Mm-hmm.” He guided us into a turn. For a man who made his living throwing punches, Dallas was surprisingly graceful. “Keep telling yourself that, Mrs. Dodger.”
I tried to maintain some dignity, some distance, but it was impossible when his chest was pressed against mine. I could feel every breath he took when his hand was splayed possessively across my lower back.
“You're enjoying this too much,” I said, aiming for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“Can you blame me?” His voice dropped an octave, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. “You look incredible. That dress….” He bit down on his bottom lip.
My chest tightened with a mixture of anger and irritation. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
I pulled back enough to meet his eyes, ignoring the couples dancing around us. “Stop saying things like that. Stop pretending…”
His brows drew together, genuine confusion flickering across his features. “Pretending what?”
“Pretending that you…” I gestured between us helplessly. “That you're attracted to me. That you find women like me attractive.”
He went still. Completely still.
“Women like you?” His voice was carefully controlled, but I could see the muscle jumping in his jaw. His eyes swept the ballroom, then came back to mine. “Let's take a walk.”
I rolled my eyes. “Pass.”
I turned to walk away, but his hand caught my elbow. “It wasn't a request.” His lips brushed my ear as he spoke, breath hot against my neck, and then he was moving, cutting through the crowd with me in tow.
“Dallas…” I snatched my arm free as he pulled me into a deserted hallway, away from the music and laughter. “What the hell?”
He spun to face me, and the look on his face stopped my next breath in my throat.
“What are you talking about?” His voice was low, controlled. “Why would you think I'm lying about being attracted to you?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly self-conscious in the quiet hallway. “Because everyone knows why you chose Brooke that night at the bar.”
His confusion deepened, brows drawing together. “And why is that?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, Davidson.” He stepped closer, invading my personal space. “Seriously.”
I lifted my chin, hating the words even as they came out. “Because you thought it would be funny. Matt flirting with the fat girl. Big joke for the boys.”
The color drained from his face. “What? Who the fuck told you I said that? Or even joked like that…”
I shrugged, looking away.
“Does Brooke think that?” He dragged both hands through his hair. “Fuck, does Matt think that's why…” He stepped forward, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “You want to know why I chose Brooke that night?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Because she was alone.” His eyes bored into mine, intense and unflinching.
“She was the only woman in that entire bar who wasn't with friends or hanging all over some guy. Yeah, we were drunk. Yeah, we were being idiots. But what I thought was funny…” He laughed, short and bitter.
“...was making Matt do something he hadn't done in years. Walk up and talk to a woman. Forcing him to put himself out there and risk rejection.”
He moved closer, and I could smell the champagne on his breath.
“You want to know what else I thought?” He looked away for a long moment before turning back.
“I thought she was too good for him. I thought for sure she'd tell him to fuck off and walk away.” The look in his eyes was so earnest that I actually believed him.
“Never in a million years did I imagine she'd say yes.
That Matt would fall in love. That I'd be the best man at their wedding and end up married to the maid of honor.”
My heart was doing acrobatics. “So everything you've been saying...” I whispered. “It's all been true?”
He nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face, softer than his usual cocky grin. “I think the bride was beautiful tonight. But my wife was the most beautiful woman in the room.”
The air between us felt electric. Charged.
“I should probably...” He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I should go talk to Brooke and Matt. Clear this up.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I can't believe Matt asked me to be his best man, given what you thought I…”
“Dallas.” I caught his hand before he could retreat further. “I think Matt's grateful for that night. For meeting her. But yeah, you should probably clear up the confusion. Maybe Brooke will hate you a little less.”
“Hate me less?” He raised an eyebrow, some of that arrogant confidence sliding back into place. “What about you, Mrs. Dodger? Do you hate me less?”
“I hate you to the moon and back, Dodger,” I said, but I was smiling as we headed back in.