Chapter 27 Table for Two
TABLE FOR TWO
DAVINA
I underestimated Dallas’s fame because when we pulled up to the restaurant, the paparazzi were already waiting.
I stared out the tinted window of Dallas's limousine.
There were seven photographers that I could see and probably more lurking in the shadows near the restaurant entrance.
They clustered around the valet stand, lenses aimed at every car that pulled up, ready to capture whatever celebrity would fund their rent that month.
Tonight, that celebrity was my fake husband and me, apparently. His fake wife, about to make her grand debut as Mrs. Dallas Dodger in front of an audience of gossip bloggers and entertainment journalists.
No pressure.
“You're doing that thing again,” Dallas said beside me.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you look like you're calculating escape routes.”
I tore my gaze from the window to glare at him, which was a mistake, because he looked so freaking good in the low light of the limo.
He was wearing a dark gray suit that hugged his shoulders like it had been sewn directly onto his body, a black shirt open at the collar, and his hair swept back into his signature man bun.
I wore a black wrap dress I'd designed specifically for moments like this. When you needed to look like you belonged next to someone who was on the cover of GQ.
“I'm not calculating anything,” I lied. “I'm mentally preparing.”
“For what? Dinner?”
“For the performance of a lifetime.” I gestured toward the window, where another flash went off as some poor unsuspecting couple tried to exit their car. “We have to convince them we're madly in love. In public. In front of cameras while eating.”
“Eating is the easy part.”
“Dallas.”
“What?” His grin widened. “I eat every day, and I'm very good at it.”
I glared at him. “You know what I mean.”
His hand found mine, fingers threading together. We'd been doing this for days now, the casual touching, the intimate glances, the thousand small gestures that sold the story of a couple who couldn't keep their hands off each other.
What terrified me was how natural it had become and how much I was going to miss it when it was gone.
“Hey.” He squeezed my hand gently. “We've got this. We've already convinced your sister, and she's scarier than any photographer.”
“That's debatable.”
“She threatened me with surgical instruments. These guys just have cameras.”
He had a point, but the stakes felt different somehow. Delilah was a test I could pass or fail in the privacy of our kitchen. This was public, and the photos from tonight would live on the internet forever.
“Besides,” Dallas continued, leaning closer until his cologne invaded my senses, “all we have to do is act like we did this morning.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “We absolutely cannot act like we did this morning. We'd be arrested.”
His laugh was low and delighted. “Not the specifics. The general energy.”
“The energy of two people who couldn't keep their clothes on?”
“Exactly.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, soft and sweet. “That energy reads really well on camera.”
“Ready?” Dallas asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“That's my girl.”
The door opened, and I was hit by a wall of sound, shutters clicking, voices calling, the general chaos of people who made their living chasing celebrities.
Dallas slid out before offering me his hand, and I let him help me out like we'd done this a thousand times. He wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me close and positioning us perfectly for the cameras.
“Dallas! Over here!”
“Who's the girl?”
“Is it true you got married?”
“Can we get a kiss?”
Dallas waved with his free hand, flashing that megawatt smile, but his hold on me never loosened. If anything, it tightened, protective and possessive.
“Just keep walking,” he murmured against my ear, his lips brushing my skin in a way that would photograph beautifully. “Eyes on me.”
So I looked at him, and for a moment, with his hand warm and steady on my hip and his eyes locked on mine like I was the only person in the universe, I forgot we were pretending.
The ma?tre d' appeared, ushering us inside. The restaurant was exactly what I'd expected from Sam's briefing: upscale Italian, dim lighting, and white tablecloths. Our table sat right in front of the massive window overlooking the street.
“Your table, Mr. Dodger.” The ma?tre d' pulled out my chair. “As requested.”
As requested meant what Sam demanded, who had been very specific about our seating arrangements.
I settled into my chair, very aware of the window beside me. Of the lenses, probably already focused on our table.
“You look like you're about to face a firing squad.” Dallas unfolded his napkin.
“I'm facing something worse. Social media scrutiny.”
“Right.” He nodded as he picked up the wine list. “Red or white?”
I gave him a look that said, seriously? Who cared about the wine when every move they made was going to be scrutinized twice? First by the media and then by the entire world.
His laugh drew attention from surrounding tables, heads turning, whispered conversations starting. I watched as recognition spread across faces like a wave. Dallas Dodger was here. With a woman. Wearing a wedding ring.
The gossip was practically writing itself.
“I'm thinking a nice Barolo,” he said, as if he couldn't feel every eye in the restaurant boring into us. “Rich, bold, complex. Like my wife.”
He grinned at me over the wine list, and a warmth spread through my chest. This was the part that kept catching me off guard, how easy it was. I'd spent a year insulting him, and somewhere along the way, those insults had transformed into this.
The sommelier appeared, and Dallas ordered in what I was pretty sure was passable Italian.
Show-off.
I studied the menu, trying to focus on the words instead of the prickling awareness of being watched.
“The osso buco is excellent,” Dallas said, leaning across the table like he was sharing a secret. “But the risotto is what I really recommend.”
“You've been here before?”
“Twice. Both times with my mom.” His smile softened. “She loves this place. Says it reminds her of a restaurant my dad took her to on their first anniversary.”
“What was your dad like?”
“He was the kind of guy who showed up every day and did the work without needing recognition.” Dallas traced the rim of his water glass with one finger. “He built things. Fixed things. I used to sit in the garage and watch him work for hours.”
“Is that why you're good with your hands?”
The words were out before I realized how they sounded. Dallas's eyebrows shot up, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“Was that a compliment disguised as a question, Mrs. Dodger?”
“It was an observation.”
“Mm-hmm.” He leaned closer, and I caught another wave of his cologne.
“I hate you.”
“Your blush says otherwise.”
He wasn't wrong. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck.
The wine arrived, and Dallas made a show of tasting it, swirling, sniffing, taking a sip, and holding it in his mouth, before nodding his approval. The sommelier poured, and I grabbed my glass like a lifeline.
“To us,” Dallas said, raising his glass.
“To surviving the next two hours.”
We ordered the risotto for me, the osso buco for him, plus an appetizer to share. The waiter disappeared, and I became very aware of our position in the restaurant. Center stage. Spotlight on. All eyes were on us. Maybe that was dramatic, but that’s how it felt.
“So,” Dallas settled back in his chair, “this is nice.”
“This is terrifying.”
“Terrifyingly nice?”
“Just terrifying.” I took a long sip of wine, letting the warmth settle my nerves. “How do you do this all the time? Live your life in a fishbowl?”
“Practice.” He shrugged. “You get used to it. Eventually, you learn to create a version of yourself that's public-safe. The real you stays private.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” His honesty caught me off guard. “But it's also protective. They can photograph Dallas 'The Dominator' Dodger all they want. Just-Dallas stays home.”
The appetizer arrived, and Dallas immediately picked up a piece and held it toward my mouth.
“What are you doing?”
“Being romantic.” He waggled the bruschetta. “This is a romantic food-sharing moment. Sam requested several.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes because there were too many people watching. “I can feed myself.”
“But can you feed yourself romantically?” He winked.
“That's not even a sentence that makes sense.”
“Davidson.” His voice dropped, taking on that rough edge that did things to my nervous system. “Open your mouth and let me feed you. For the cameras.”
I glanced at the window, then back at Dallas, and I caved as I opened my mouth.
His smile turned triumphant as he slid the bruschetta past my lips. My gaze held his as the tomato and basil burst across my tongue, but I barely tasted it because his thumb brushed against my lower lip, wiping away a drop of olive oil, and my breath caught.
He was way too good at this.
Dinner continued, wine flowing, conversation was easy, Dallas finding excuses to touch me whenever possible. And what unsettled me most was how much I was enjoying it.
Dallas was funny, not just sarcastic-funny like he was on camera. He told me stories about his early wrestling days, about the time he accidentally body-slammed his trainer, about the PR disasters that had nearly ended his career before it began.
And he listened, leaning forward when I talked about building my business, asking questions that showed he was paying attention, remembering details I'd mentioned days ago.
By the time dessert arrived I'd almost forgotten about the cameras, that this was supposed to be a performance.
“So,” I said, watching Dallas scoop tiramisu onto his spoon, “I've been meaning to ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
“The big dick energy thing.” I leaned forward, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear. “Maybe now would be a good time to give me some advice, since we're on a date?”