Page 47 of Big D!ck Energy

I picked up a framed photo from the shelf. Dallas, with his arm around a petite woman who had his same blue eyes and warm smile, and a younger girl. All three of them were grinning at the camera. “Your mom and sister?”

“Yeah. That's Mom and Cheyanne.” His voice went soft. “Photos from Cheyanne's high school graduation.”

Great. Now, he wasn't just annoyingly attractive; he was also a family man.

“Stop being likable,” I muttered, setting the frame down. “It's very inconvenient for our fake marriage.”

“Noted. I'll work on being more unlikable tomorrow.” He checked his phone. “It’s almost 3 a.m. You must be exhausted.”

I was about to protest that I'd slept the entire flight, but a yawn ambushed me mid-breath. “Traitor,” I muttered.

“Come on.” He picked up my suitcase like it weighed nothing. “Bedroom's this way.”

I followed him down a short hallway, trying not to focus on how his jeans fit. The hallway was lined with more photos, Dallas with various wrestlers I recognized, Dallas at charity events, Dallas with his arm around his mom at what looked like a fancy restaurant.

The bedroom was just as put-together as the rest of the house, a king-sized bed with a dark blue comforter. Matching nightstands on each side of the bed, each with a lamp, and blackout curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor. A dresser with a mirror sat against one wall, and the whole room smelled like clean laundry.

“This is yours,” he said, setting my suitcase on the bed. “Bathroom's through there. Clean towels are in the cabinet. I'll be on the couch if you need anything.”

He stopped in the doorway, his expression going unexpectedly serious. “Goodnight, wifey,” he said with a grin that was going to haunt my dreams and possibly require therapy. “Try not to snore too loud. The walls are thin, and I'd hate for the neighbors to think I'm running a lumber mill.”

I threw a pillow at him, and he caught it. “I hate you!”

“No, you don't.” He tossed the pillow back to me and closed the door before I could throw it again.

I stood there for a moment, alone in Dallas's bedroom.

Forcing myself into motion, I unzipped my suitcase and dug through it for something clean to sleep in. Everything was wrinkled from hasty packing. I found my last clean nightgown and stripped out of my clothes, shoving them back into my suitcase before sliding the silky pajamas on.

I zipped up my suitcase and strolled into the bathroom, which was also immaculate. White subway tile, a rainfall showerhead, fluffy towels folded on a shelf. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and stared at myself in the mirror.

“You're sleeping in your fake husband's bed,” I mumbled. “Alone.”

I was thirsty.

I crept out of the bedroom, padding quietly down the hallway.

A muffled grunt of discomfort echoed from the living room, followed by a curse whispered aggressively. Then another thump and what I was pretty sure was the word dammit said with the kind of venom usually reserved for traffic jams.

I peeked around the corner and found Dallas on the couch. Or rather, Dallas attempting to fit on the couch the way you might attempt to fit a Great Dane into a cat carrier.

His six-foot-four frame was folded at angles that would make a yoga instructor weep. His legs were bent awkwardly, one massive foot braced against the armrest, the other dangling off the edge. His head was propped on the other armrest at an angle that definitely looked like he was going to have neck pain in the morning.

The soft glow from the kitchen light cast shadows across his bare chest and abs. He was trying to arrange a throw pillow under his head, one of those small decorative ones clearly designed to look pretty rather than be used.

“Comfortable?” I asked from the doorway.

He jerked up so fast he nearly rolled off the couch, his arms windmilling for balance. “Jesus, Davina. Stealth mode much? You trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Sorry.” I wasn't sorry. I was too busy trying not to stare at his chest. “I just wanted water.”

“Kitchen's…” He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, then winced as the movement made him bang his elbow on the side table. “Ow. Dammit.”

He tried to resettle himself, which was like watching someone try to fold a fitted sheet. His foot hit the armrest. His knee banged the back cushion. His shoulder got wedged against the frame.

“Dallas, that couch is like five feet long.”

“Five and a half,” he corrected, punching the decorative pillow into submission.