Page 45 of Big D!ck Energy

“I didn't mind.” His smile was soft. “I learned two very important things about my wifey during our first flight as newlyweds.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain. “Yeah? What's that?” I challenged.

“One,” he said, holding up a finger as the overhead speaker crackled with the pilot's welcome to Tampa announcement, “you are a heavy sleeper when you’re tired and two...” He grinned smugly. “You snore.”

My face heated with embarrassment. “I do NOT snore!”

Dallas laughed, drawing envious glances from nearby passengers, women who clearly hadn't had the privilege of discovering what a smart-ass he was beneath that GQ exterior.

“Yeah, you do.” He shifted in his seat as his gaze dropped to where I'd been sleeping on him, and he brushed at a spot on his shirt that made my eyes widen to cartoon proportions. “You drool a little, too,” he added, wiping at the dark stain. “But it was kind of cute. Like watching a St. Bernard fall asleep with a tennis ball.”

“Drooling,” I scowled, the flush creeping up my neck. “Drooling is cute? Only you would think bodily fluids are endearing.” I snapped my seatbelt open as the plane eased to a stop at the gate. “Next you'll be telling me my morning breath is charming.”

“Actually…” he began with a twinkle in his eye that promised nothing good.

“Don't. You. Dare.” I punctuated each word with a jab to his chest, which felt like poking a marble statue.

He stood, pulling out both of our carry-ons from the overhead compartment in one smooth motion while I was still trying to locate my left shoe under the seat.

“So,” he said casually, “do we go back to your place or mine tonight?”

I narrowed my eyes. It was after midnight, the airport was half-deserted, and it only seemed logical for us to each go to our own homes, crawl into our respective beds, and pretend this whole fake-marriage disaster wasn't happening until at least after coffee tomorrow.

“You go to yours, and I'll go to mine,” I said firmly, grabbing my bag from him and accidentally brushing fingers in the process.

“Sorry, wifey,” he smirked. “You're stuck with me until this charade is over.”

“That's ridiculous,” I whined, stumbling slightly as we moved toward the front of the plane. “It's a couple of hours at most before…”

He whipped around so suddenly I nearly crashed into his chest again. He lowered his face to mine and whispered with breath that smelled like the mints. “It may be ridiculous, but do you know what the media vultures will do if they get even a whiff of this being fake? They're probably already camped outside both our places with telephoto lenses and Doritos.”

I'd had my fair share of dealing with the media, but nothing like what he dealt with. The man couldn't get a coffee without ending up on three different gossip sites.

“I get it,” I sighed, surrendering to the absurdity of my life choices as we stepped into the terminal, where sure enough, a sleepy-looking paparazzo was already pretending to check flight arrivals. “We can crash at your place tonight and figure everything out in the morning. But I'm taking the bed. You can enjoy the couch.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Dodger,” he said loud enough for nearby ears, taking my hand in his, his thumb brushing across my knuckles, sending shivers to places that had no business shivering.

And that's when I realized my fake wedding ring had moved from my right hand to my left. My gaze dropped to his, and it had also made it to his left hand. He'd moved them while I slept, and something about that made my stomach flutter with butterflies.

Even worse? Dallas Dodger was starting to grow on me.

CHAPTER 17

EVERYTHING IS FINE

DAVINA

The Uber ride from Tampa International to Dallas's place on Davis Island took twenty minutes. We sat in the backseat like awkward teenagers at a school dance, maintaining a careful six-inch buffer zone.

“You two just get married?” Bruno, our driver, asked, eyes meeting ours in the rearview mirror.

“Vegas,” Dallas said smoothly, his hand finding mine on the seat. “Spur of the moment thing.”

“That's beautiful, man. Young love.” Bruno sighed wistfully. “My wife and I eloped, too. Twenty-three years ago. Best decision I ever made.”

I felt Dallas's fingers tighten around mine. “Hear that, Honey? Twenty-three years. That's the goal.”

I kicked his ankle. Hard. He didn't even flinch, just grinned at me with those stupidly perfect teeth.