Chapter 24
THE BED STANDOFF
DAVINA
I stood at the side of the bed like I was on a diving board, and I’d just realized I couldn't swim.
The king-sized mattress looked enormous and somehow not nearly big enough at the same time. Which was a neat trick of physics that my anxiety-riddled brain was currently performing without my permission.
My fingers twisted in the hem of the oversized t-shirt I'd borrowed from Dallas's drawer.
“Get into the bed, Davidson.”
I jumped about three feet in the air. “Jesus Christ, you can't just sneak up on people like…” My complaint died in my throat because Dallas was only wearing black boxer briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and believe me, my imagination had been working overtime all evening.
“I wasn't sneaking.” He padded toward the bed. “You were just having a staring contest with the mattress.”
“I was not.”
“No?” He raised an eyebrow, pulling back the covers on his side. “What were you doing?”
“Uh…” I tried to think of something, but my brain wasn’t working with me at that moment.
“Contemplating your life choices. Counting sheep. Wondering if you still had time to run.” He laughed, low and warm, and the sound did things to my nervous system that should require a medical license. “Get in the bed, Davina.”
“Bossy.”
His eyes met mine across the bed, and I scowled at him but moved to my side of the bed, climbing in.
“Comfortable?” He settled in beside me.
“Peachy.”
“You're on top of the covers like you're afraid the bed might eat you.”
“The bed isn't what I'm worried about.”
His grin turned wicked. “Scared of me, wifey?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Uh-huh.” He shifted, and I was very aware of the space between us. Which was a lot of space, technically, at least two feet of no-man's-land, but somehow felt like nothing at all. “Then why are you clinging to the edge like you're on the Titanic and it’s about to sink?”
“I'm giving you space.”
“I don't need space. I need you to stop looking like you're about to bolt.”
I turned my head to glare at him properly, which was a mistake because damn, he was so freaking hot. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, falling to his shoulders. The line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.
“I'm not going to bolt,” I said, probably unconvincingly.
“Good.” He reached over to his nightstand, and I tried very hard not to notice how the movement made the muscles in his arm flex.
“Because tomorrow we're going to have to sell this whole married thing, and it'll be a lot more believable if you don't look like I'm forcing you into an arranged marriage.”
“I don't look like…”
“You absolutely do.” His hand found the lamp switch. “Relax, Davidson.”
I rolled my eyes, then rolled onto my side, facing away from him.
“Come here, wifey.” The mattress shifted as he moved closer, and his hand settled on my waist. “Let's cuddle.”
My lip curled in a what the actual fuck expression that was wasted in the darkness. “Why would we cuddle?”
“Because that's what husbands and wives do, sweetheart.” His large hand slid around my hip and flattened my stomach. “They cuddle. They spoon. They engage in various forms of horizontal affection.”
“You aren't my real husband, and I'm not your real wife. Why do I have to keep explaining this to you?”
He chuckled. “Trust me, I remember. But this is practice. The more comfortable we are together in private, the more believable we'll be in public.” His fingers spread wider on my waist. “We have to make the world believe we are deliriously in love tomorrow.”
“You're serious right now.”
“Look, we did the kissing thing...” His voice dropped lower. “Which, for the record, was not terrible.”
“Not terrible? You practically…”
“Now we need to do the hand-holding thing.” He cut me off. “The casual touching thing. The looking-at-each-other-like-we're-not-secretly-plotting-murder thing.” He found my hand in the darkness, threading his fingers through mine, and suddenly my entire nervous system was on high alert.
I jerked my hand away like I'd been electrocuted. “No.”
“No?”
“No. Absolutely not. Application denied.”
All of this was confusing my senses. The kiss had been bad enough, or good enough, depending on how you looked at it, and if we continued down this path, I would forget this was all fake.
I'd forget that this was temporary. I'd forget that Dallas I'm-Never-Getting-Married Dodger was the absolute last person on earth I should be developing feelings for.
We needed distance. Emotional distance. Physical distance. Possibly restraining-order-level distance.
“Sorry, Davidson.” His hand settled on my hip. “But this is important for both of our reputations. So we're cuddling. Consider it...” His fingertips curled into my skin, and my breath caught audibly in the quiet room. “Homework.”
“Homework,” I repeated flatly.
“Required curriculum for Advanced Fake Marriage 101. Final exam tomorrow at eight PM sharp. Study hard.” His voice was closer now, his breath warm against the back of my neck. “I hear the professor grades on a curve.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t fight the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I hate you.”
“No, you don't.” He pulled me back against his chest, and my body relaxed into him like it had been designed specifically for this purpose. “You hate that you don't hate me.”
The problem was he was right.
Somewhere between the constant bickering and the forced proximity and the stupid fake marriage, Dallas had somehow become less infuriating and more... everything. More funny. More kind. More attractive.
His body wrapped around mine, solid and warm, one arm draped over my waist like he did this every night. His full lips were mere inches from my neck, and I could feel each exhale against my skin, raising goosebumps.
My thighs pressed together involuntarily, trying to alleviate the ache that was building low in my belly. This was dangerous. This was so far past dangerous it had lapped dangerous twice and was gaining on catastrophic.
His fingers splayed across my stomach, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin cotton. I could feel all of him pressed against my back, every hard plane and angle, every place where our bodies aligned perfectly.
“This is a terrible idea,” I murmured.
“Probably,” he hummed against my skin, sounding far too comfortable, which for some reason annoyed me.
So I did the stupidest thing possible and rolled to face him.
I wanted to show him exactly how annoyed I was, except the expression died the moment I found myself nose-to-chest with a shirtless Dallas Dodger.
The moonlight reflected off the bay, spilling through the large window in the room, giving just enough light to see how beautiful he was.
“You're annoyed,” he said, not hiding the amusement in his voice.
“You think you're hilarious.”
“I think you think I'm hilarious.” His hand, still warm, came up to cup my face. “Also, you're blushing.”
“It's warm in here.”
“It's sixty-eight degrees, Davidson.” His eyes were dark in the low light, but I could see them dancing with laughter. “You're blushing because you were just thinking about my very impressive skill set.”
I huffed out a humorless laugh. “Your skill set is mediocre at best.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why you made that sound when I…”
“Don't,” I cut him off, pressing my palm against his chest like that would somehow stop him from continuing to be right about everything.
His heartbeat was strong and steady under my hand, which felt wildly unfair.
How was he so calm when my entire cardiovascular system was staging a full mutiny? “We're not discussing sounds.”
“Why not? I thought they were very encouraging.” His hand curled around my hip. “Very informative. I'd give them a solid eight out of ten.”
“Eight?” I scowled.
His grin turned wolfish as his hand tightened, squeezing in a caressing way. “The ones you'll make tomorrow night will definitely be at least a nine.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was arrogant and delusional. That tomorrow we'd barely be able to keep our hands off each other for entirely professional reasons and absolutely nothing else.
“Your ego is showing again.”
“So is your interest.” His voice dropped even lower. “You're still touching my chest, sweetheart. If you wanted distance, you probably should have moved by now.”
The mortifying part was that he was right. I was still pressed against him.
“Maybe I'm just keeping you warm,” I said, trying for icy and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“It's still sixty-eight degrees.”
“You keep saying that like it means something.”
“It means you're full of shit, wifey. Adorably full of shit, but still.” He shifted, and suddenly his hips were pressing into mine, and holy mother of God, I was acutely aware of exactly how interested he was in that moment. “Which means you do want me.”
“I. Do. Not.” My voice was shaky and definitely not believable. I did want him, but it was purely physical, or at least that’s what I was telling myself.
“Your death grip on my chest suggests otherwise.”
I looked down and realized I'd apparently clenched my fingers into a muscle. I tried to pull my hand away, but he caught it, pressing it firmly back against his skin.
“Don't,” he said, something almost vulnerable in his voice. “Stay.”
“Dallas, this is…”
“I know what this is.” His other hand found the small of my back, pulling me closer until barely a breath separated us.
“It's fake. It's temporary. It's a spectacularly bad idea.” He paused. “We didn’t plan this situation.” His fingertips grazed my forehead, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“But that doesn't matter anymore because we're here. You are my wife. I am your husband. Real marriage certificate. Real divorce.” He paused, his gaze raking over me in a way that made my breath stutter.
“Real everything, except the timing and circumstances.”
“So... everything,” I said slowly.