Page 46 of Big D!ck Energy

Every time we hit a pothole, we'd bounce closer together, our thighs pressing against each other, then immediately spring apart. By the third pothole, Dallas leaned over and whispered, “If you keep jumping away from me like I have the plague, Bruno is going to think our marriage is already in trouble.”

“Our marriage is in trouble,” I hissed back under my breath. “It's fake.”

“He doesn't know that. Just…” He slid his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. “There. Much more convincing.”

I was going to kill him. After I stopped noticing how good he smelled, even after a cross-country flight.

“You okay?” Dallas asked as we turned onto a tree-lined street.

“Fine,” I lied. “Just wondering what level of bachelor pad horror I'm about to walk into. On a scale of forgot to do dishes to possible biohazard requiring hazmat suits, where are we landing?”

He had the audacity to look offended, his hand going to his chest like I'd wounded him. “I'm not that bad.”

“You're a professional wrestler who travels three hundred days a year. You probably don't even remember what your kitchen looks like.” I watched the houses roll by, each one more charming than the last. “The last guy I knew with that schedule had a mattress on the floor, used pizza boxes as furniture, and I'm pretty sure something was growing in his sink.”

“Wow. Zero faith in me.” But he was smiling as the Uber pulled up to a multimillion-dollar architectural fortress located directly on the bay. It was beautiful.

I stared. Blinked. Stared some more. “This is yours?”

“What, expecting a cave with a neon beer sign and a weight bench in the living room?”

“Yes.” I climbed out of the car, studying the house. “Where's the wrestling ring in the front yard and the life-size cardboard cutout of yourself?”

Dallas grabbed both our bags. “Those are all inside.”

“You're joking.”

“I'm joking.” He unlocked the door and held it open, his smile turning almost shy. “Ladies first, Mrs. Dodger.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Not until you stop blushing when I do.”

I stepped inside and stopped. It was... cozy. The living room had a comfortable-looking sectional in soft gray. Throw pillows that matched. A coffee table made of reclaimed wood, topped with a few books and a decorative bowl. There were bookshelves with actual books on them, not just trophies.

A throw blanket was draped artfully over the back of the couch. The kind of throw blanket that was both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

“I…” I turned to him, genuinely confused. “Did you hire someone to stage this? Are you trying to sell the place?”

He laughed, setting our bags down with a soft thud on the hardwood floors. “Nope. This is how I live.”

“But you're never here.” I moved further into the room. “This place looks lived in. There's a candle on the mantle that's been burned. Someone has been burning candles in here, Dallas.”

“Guilty.” He shrugged out of his jacket, and I tried very hard not to notice how his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, or how his arms looked like they could bench-press a small car, or how the lighting in here made his eyes look even more blue. I failed at all of these attempts. “I like coming home to a home that doesn't feel like a hotel room.”

“But…” I gestured around the room. “There are throw pillows. In coordinating patterns.”

“Is that so weird?”

“For a guy who gets hit in the face for a living? Yes!”

“Exactly why it needs to be comfortable when I am here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I gave my mom and sister my credit card about a year ago, told them to make it livable. They went a little overboard.”

“A little?” I walked further in, running my hand along the back of the sofa. The fabric was soft. “Dallas, this place looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It's shocking.”