Page 14 of Big D!ck Energy

“That is not…”

“And for your information,” he continued, “I like flying commercial. Keeps me humble. Plus, the baby oil doesn't travel well in a carry-on. TSA gets suspicious.”

My lips twitched. “You're ridiculous.”

“You're smiling.”

“I'm not.” I dropped my head, avoiding eye contact, because I was fighting a smile.

The plane pivoted onto the runway, engines building to a crescendo. The cabin lights dimmed as the flight attendants took their seats.

“Look,” I said, pulling out my AirPods, “it's a four-hour flight. How about we both pretend the other person doesn't exist? You stare at your phone, flex at your reflection in the window, whatever it is you do. I'll listen to music and mentally redecorate this entire aircraft because whoever chose this upholstery should be arrested.”

I shoved one earbud in, then the other, and closed my eyes.

The plane accelerated, G-forces pressing me back into the seat. Into him. His shoulder pushed against me, and his thigh aligned with mine. Every point of contact felt like a live wire.

I cranked up the volume on my phone, letting the music drown out the engine noise. But even with my eyes closed and Taylor Swift at maximum volume, I was very aware of how close Dallas was.

This was going to be the longest four hours of my life.

CHAPTER 5

WORST CASE SCENARIO, VEGAS EDITION

DAVINA

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, the universe said, “Hold my beer.”

The airport doors whooshed shut behind me, severing my connection to the air conditioning and abandoning me to the hellscape of Las Vegas in July. I was now marinating in what felt like one-hundred-and-fifteen-degree heat and contemplating all the ways I could murder whoever at the airline lost my luggage.

My phone screen mocked me with its cheerful map, displaying zero available Uber drivers. “Come on, come on,” I muttered, stabbing the refresh button for the fourteenth time. The little icon spun optimistically before delivering the same soul-crushing results. Apparently, every single person in Las Vegas decided they needed a ride at exactly 3:38 PM on a Thursday.

“Having trouble, Davidson?”

My spine went rigid, and my lip curled into a snarl. His voice was as smooth as expensive whiskey and twice as likely to give me a headache.

I whipped around, clutching my phone like it might suddenly manifest an Uber driver through sheer desperate will. “It's Davina,” I retorted, my voice tinged with irritation. “My name is Davina. It's been Davina for twenty-eight years.”

“Oh, I know exactly what your name is… Davidson.” His grin widened, all straight white teeth, and I wanted to throw my phone at his face. “But you turn the most delightful shade of red when I call you that.”

“I don't…” The heat was already creeping up my neck. “I'm flushed from the heat. It's literally the surface of the sun out here.”

“Sure you are.” He shifted his weight, and I caught sight of a sleek black Mercedes idling at the curb behind him. “No Ubers, huh?”

“There are plenty of Ubers,” I lied, jabbing at my phone screen. “I'm just being selective. Checking reviews. Safety first.”

“Right.” He had the audacity to check his watch like he had somewhere important to be. We were going to the same place. “Well, my car's already here. Since we're both heading to the Bellagio, you could ride with me. I promise I only have a moderate amount of duct tape and zip ties in the trunk.”

I stared at him. Then at the car, which probably had that new leather smell and working air conditioning. Then back at him. “I'd rather walk.”

“It's ten miles. In hundred-degree heat.”

“I'd rather crawl through that heat.”

“You'll melt into the pavement like the Wicked Witch of the West. Which, given your disposition, seems appropriate.”

“I would rather,” I said, speaking slowly and clearly while a bead of sweat traced a path down my spine, “gnaw off my own arm, cook it medium-rare with a nice chimichurri, and eat it than get in a car with you, Dodger.”