Page 54 of Big D!ck Energy

“Till death or divorce do us part.” I paused at the French doors, looking back at her sitting at my table, like she belonged there. “Which, according to your timeline, should be in about three weeks.”

“Twenty-four days,” she corrected.

I turned the handle on the French doors just as the doorbell rang.

“That'll be Sam,” I said, watching her immediately transform from relaxed to rigid. “Try not to look like you're about to be interrogated by the FBI.”

“Is that not what's about to happen?”

I laughed. “Sam's more CIA. Much scarier.”

I headed through the house, her muttered “That's not reassuring.” following me.

Sam stood on my doorstep looking like she'd stepped out of the Shark Tank. Her blazer was so sharp it could cut glass, her tablet clutched to her chest, and her expression suggested she was already fed up with my shit this morning.

“Dallas.” She swept past me like a hurricane in Louboutins. “Please tell me she's here, coherent, and hasn't already posted about this on social media.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“Morning was four hours ago.” She paused in my living room, scanning it. “Where is the bride?”

“Patio. And be nice, she's not used to having her life turned into a PR campaign.”

Sam forced a sarcastic smile. “Neither are you, apparently. Married.” She shook her head. “In all my years of cleaning up your messes, and there have been many…”

“Hey…”

“So many…”

“I get it…”

“Like, a truly staggering amount…”

“Sam.”

“This one takes the cake. Wedding cake, specifically.” She laughed at her own joke. “God, I'm hilarious when I'm stressed.”

I led her through to the patio, where Davina was now standing, looking like she was preparing for battle or possibly planning an escape route.

“Sam, meet…”

“The woman who finally got Dallas Dodger to say I do,” Sam interrupted, extending her hand with a smile. “Samantha Spencer. I manage Dallas's public image, which means I'm about to become your new best friend, worst enemy, or maybe both.”

They shook hands as they sized each other up.

“I listen to your podcast,” Sam said, settling into a chair. “I love all the body positivity.”

My wife relaxed. “You listen?”

“Research is my love language. Knowledge is my kink. Information is my…”

“We get it,” I interrupted. “You're thorough.”

“Which brings me to why I'm here.” Sam reached into her bag and produced a manila envelope thick enough to use as a weapon, and dropped it on the table.

“Postnup,” Sam corrected. “Since you've already made the decision to get married. Think of it as insurance for your temporary insanity.”

“It's unnecessary,” I said, shoving the envelope away. “We're both adults. We can handle this.”