Page 62 of Big D!ck Energy

My phone buzzed.

Davina: On my way home. YOUR home. Our home? Whatever. Bringing Thai food. Hope your kitchen survived Hurricane Karen.

I looked at Karen, who seemed to smirk.

Yeah, maybe I was happy. Terrified, but happy.

CHAPTER 22

SIX FOOT FOUR INCHES OF A TERRIBLE IDEA

DAVINA

I balanced the Thai food bags against my hip while trying to unlock the door, with the key he'd given me that morning.

“Honey, I'm home,” I called out, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Dallas appeared from the kitchen, and my stupid heart did a little skip that I firmly told it to stop doing. He'd changed into worn jeans and a gray Henley that clung in ways that made my mouth water. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that had no business being that distracting. His hair was pulled back, and there was a small tear in the knee of his jeans that my eyes kept finding.

“How very 1950s of you,” he said, taking the bags from me. His fingers brushed mine, lingering just a second too long, and I definitely didn't notice how warm they were or how that warmth seemed to travel up my arm. “Though I think you're supposed to have a martini ready for me, not Thai food.”

“I'll keep that in mind for never.” I followed him to the living room, hyperaware of the way his shoulders moved as he walked. “How did the pet integration go?”

“Karen established dominance by breaking my fruit bowl. Ricky yapped for thirty-eight minutes straight. I may have mild hearing damage.”

“Only thirty-eight? That's progress.” I kicked off my heels and tucked my legs under me on his comfortable couch, noticing how his eyes tracked the movement. “He once barked for three hours because a leaf moved outside my window.”

Dallas handed me a plate, his fingers brushing mine again, definitely on purpose this time, and started unpacking the containers. “Pad Thai?”

“Obviously.”

“Spring rolls?”

“Always.”

“Spice level that would make normal humans cry?”

“Is there any other kind?”

He grinned, and damn him for having such a good smile. “We might survive living together.”

“It's only six months,” I reminded him, trying not to think about how his cologne was already becoming familiar. “We can survive anything for six months.”

“Minimum,” he corrected, settling next to me on the couch. Not at the other end like I expected. Right next to me.

I focused on twirling my pad Thai, determined not to notice the way his thigh was almost touching mine, how if I shifted just slightly, we'd be pressed together from hip to knee. He stole one of my spring rolls, reaching across me to do it, his chest brushing my shoulder.

I smacked his hand with my chopsticks, trying not to notice the way my pulse jumped at the contact. “Ow. Violent.”

“Thief. Get your own spring rolls.”

“We're married. What's yours is mine.” His voice dropped on the word married.

“That's not how fake marriages work.”

“How would you know? How many fake marriages have you been in?”

“Including this one?” I blinked sarcastically. “One too many.”