Page 85 of Big D!ck Energy

“You look like you're about to face a firing squad.” Dallas unfolded his napkin.

“I'm facing something worse. Social media scrutiny.”

“Right.” He nodded as he picked up the wine list. “Red or white?”

I gave him a look that said, seriously? Who cared about the wine when every move they made was going to be scrutinized twice? First by the media and then by the entire world.

His laugh drew attention from surrounding tables, heads turning, whispered conversations starting. I watched as recognition spread across faces like a wave. Dallas Dodger was here. With a woman. Wearing a wedding ring.

The gossip was practically writing itself.

“I'm thinking a nice Barolo,” he said, as if he couldn't feel every eye in the restaurant boring into us. “Rich, bold, complex. Like my wife.”

He grinned at me over the wine list, and a warmth spread through my chest. This was the part that kept catching me off guard, how easy it was. I'd spent a year insulting him, and somewhere along the way, those insults had transformed into this.

The sommelier appeared, and Dallas ordered in what I was pretty sure was passable Italian.

Show-off.

I studied the menu, trying to focus on the words instead of the prickling awareness of being watched.

“The osso buco is excellent,” Dallas said, leaning across the table like he was sharing a secret. “But the risotto is what I really recommend.”

“You've been here before?”

“Twice. Both times with my mom.” His smile softened. “She loves this place. Says it reminds her of a restaurant my dad took her to on their first anniversary.”

“What was your dad like?”

“He was the kind of guy who showed up every day and did the work without needing recognition.” Dallas traced the rim of his water glass with one finger. “He built things. Fixed things. I used to sit in the garage and watch him work for hours.”

“Is that why you're good with your hands?”

The words were out before I realized how they sounded. Dallas's eyebrows shot up, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Was that a compliment disguised as a question, Mrs. Dodger?”

“It was an observation.”

“Mm-hmm.” He leaned closer, and I caught another wave of his cologne.

“I hate you.”

“Your blush says otherwise.”

He wasn't wrong. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck.

The wine arrived, and Dallas made a show of tasting it, swirling, sniffing, taking a sip, and holding it in his mouth, before nodding his approval. The sommelier poured, and I grabbed my glass like a lifeline.

“To us,” Dallas said, raising his glass.

“To surviving the next two hours.”

We ordered the risotto for me, the osso buco for him, plus an appetizer to share. The waiter disappeared, and I became very aware of our position in the restaurant. Center stage. Spotlight on. All eyes were on us. Maybe that was dramatic, but that’s how it felt.

“So,” Dallas settled back in his chair, “this is nice.”

“This is terrifying.”