Page 59 of Big D!ck Energy

“How many shoes can one person possibly own?”

Her laugh echoed from the bedroom.

Over the next hour, I learned several important things about my fake wife.

First, she wasn't exaggerating about the shoes. The woman had an entire closet dedicated to footwear.

Second, she had an entire drawer dedicated to what she called comfort clothes—oversized sweaters, worn-in leggings, and soft cotton t-shirts that she apparently considered essential to her mental health.

Third, packing with Davina was an exercise in controlled chaos. She'd start filling one suitcase, get distracted by a piece of clothing that sparked a memory, tell me a fifteen-minute story about where she bought it and what she was doing at the time, then forget what she'd already packed and start over.

By the time we'd finished, we had four massive suitcases, three boxes of what she called essentials, and one garment bag that she'd threatened me with bodily harm if I wrinkled.

“Ready?” she asked, surveying the pile with the calm authority of a general reviewing her troops.

I looked at the mountain of luggage. “Born ready, baby.” I winked, and she rolled her eyes as she handed me the two heaviest bags, grabbed the garment bag, headed for the elevator, and I followed, because apparently that's what I did now.

CHAPTER 21

NOT MY CIRCUS, NOT MY CAT

DALLAS

I stood in my kitchen, wondering exactly when my life had turned into a sitcom. The yapping hadn't stopped for thirty-eight minutes. I knew because I'd been timing it, hoping there was some kind of world record I could submit to make this torture feel productive.

Ricky, all eight pounds of him, had positioned himself by the kitchen island, his tiny body vibrating. Every bark seemed to say who the hell are you, and what have you done with my mother?

“Listen, buddy.” I crouched down to his level for the fifth time. “We've been over this. Your mom will be back. She's just at her office dealing with...” I paused, realizing I was explaining business logistics to a dog. “You know what? Never mind.”

He responded by increasing his volume, which shouldn't have been physically possible given his size.

Meanwhile, Karen sat on my granite kitchen island like a calico Buddha, completely unimpressed by my dog-whispering skills. She hadn't moved in twenty minutes, just sat there judging my inability to calm down one tiny dog.

“You could help,” I told her.

She slow-blinked at me, which I was pretty sure was cat for not my circus, not my monkeys.

My kitchen, which had always been my sanctuary, now looked like a petting zoo had exploded in it. There were food bowls by the breakfast nook, a litter box hidden discreetly in the laundry room, and various toys scattered across my previously immaculate hardwood.

I'd just bent down to attempt peace negotiations with Ricky again when my front door burst open.

“DALLAS DODGER.”

I flinched.

Cheyanne, my sister’s, voice could have shattered glass. She stormed into the kitchen, her blonde hair whipping behind her. Austin, my brother, followed at a more leisurely pace, already grinning.

“You got married?” Cheyanne continued, waving her phone like evidence in a murder trial. “And I had to find out from Instagram?”

“Technically, Sam posted it, not me,” I offered weakly.

“Oh, well that makes it SO much better.” She stopped her gaze, shifting to Karen. “Why is there a cat on your kitchen island?”

“That's Karen.”

“You named a cat Karen?”

“I didn't name her anything. She came with the wife.”