Page 130 of Big Dick Energy

“I know. She's shopping for new material with Marcus.” I'd made sure of that. “I'm here to see you.”

Her expression cycled through confusion, suspicion, and finally landed on intrigued. “Me?”

“You.”

She studied me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing. Then she stepped back, gesturing me inside.

“This better be good, Dodger. I have a podcast to edit and approximately seven hundred listener questions about whether you're as romantic as you seemed or if it was all an act.”

“What do you tell them?”

“That you're disgustingly sincere, and it makes me want to vomit.” She dropped into her desk chair, which was purple and had wheels that squeaked when she moved. “In a good way. Mostly.”

Her office was an organized mess. Papers covered every surface; sticky notes formed a multicolored wallpaper around her computer monitor, and a whiteboard in the corner was covered with what appeared to be a flowchart.

I moved a stack of magazines off the chair across from her desk and sat down.

“Okay.” Brooke set down her mug and folded her hands like she was about to conduct a job interview. “Spill. Why are you here?”

I took a breath. I'd practiced this in the car on the way over, had rehearsed exactly what I wanted to say, but now that I was here, the words felt too small for what I was trying to express.

“I want to give Davina a real wedding.”

Brooke blinked.

“A... real wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“You're already married.”

“I know.”

“To Davina.”

“I'm aware.”

“The woman you married in Vegas,” Brooke spoke slowly. “With the Elvis impersonator and the tequila. And the…”

“That's exactly the point.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to convey through sheer intensity what the words couldn't capture. “That wedding was... I mean, I don't regret it. I could never regret anything that led to being married to her. But it wasn't what she deserved.”

Brooke was quiet for a moment, her expression softening.

“Dallas,” she said slowly, “I've never heard Davina complain about your wedding. Not once, and trust me, if she were unhappy about it, I'd know. The woman has opinions about everything from thread count to the optimal temperature for white wine. If her wedding bothered her, I would have heard about it.”

“I know she’s not complaining.” I ran a hand through my hair, struggling to articulate the feeling that had been building in my chest for weeks now. Ever since Sam. Ever since I'd held Davina while she cried and realized how close I'd come to losing her because she couldn't quite believe I'd chosen her. “I want to put to rest any doubt she has. Any questions about whether this is real or temporary. I want her to know that I choose her. That I will always choose her. That if I could go back to that night in Vegas, the only thing I'd change is… Well nothing. She’d never have married me if we weren’t drunk, and that one night changed my whole life. For the better.”

Brooke's eyes were filled with unshed tears. “Okay, you want to give her a real wedding.” She blinked rapidly and reached for her coffee mug, taking a long sip.

“I want to give her a wedding that doesn't involve tequila-induced blackouts and waking up with matching hangovers. I want her to know that I choose her and I want her to choose me.”

“Fair. Very fair.” She set down her mug and leaned forward, her expression shifting from touched to tactical. “So. How can I help?”

Relief flooded through me. I'd hoped Brooke would be on board because I needed her help to pull this off.

“I need a venue,” I said. “Something... intimate and beautiful.”

Brooke's smile widened. “Oh, I know exactly the place.”