Page 86 of Big Dick Energy

“Terrifyingly nice?”

“Just terrifying.” I took a long sip of wine, letting the warmth settle my nerves. “How do you do this all the time? Live your life in a fishbowl?”

“Practice.” He shrugged. “You get used to it. Eventually, you learn to create a version of yourself that's public-safe. The real you stays private.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” His honesty caught me off guard. “But it's also protective. They can photograph Dallas 'The Dominator' Dodger all they want. Just-Dallas stays home.”

The appetizer arrived, and Dallas immediately picked up a piece and held it toward my mouth.

“What are you doing?”

“Being romantic.” He waggled the bruschetta. “This is a romantic food-sharing moment. Sam requested several.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes because there were too many people watching. “I can feed myself.”

“But can you feed yourself romantically?” He winked.

“That's not even a sentence that makes sense.”

“Davidson.” His voice dropped, taking on that rough edge that did things to my nervous system. “Open your mouth and let me feed you. For the cameras.”

I glanced at the window, then back at Dallas, and I caved as I opened my mouth.

His smile turned triumphant as he slid the bruschetta past my lips. My gaze held his as the tomato and basil burst across my tongue, but I barely tasted it because his thumb brushed against my lower lip, wiping away a drop of olive oil, and my breath caught.

He was way too good at this.

Dinner continued, wine flowing, conversation was easy, Dallas finding excuses to touch me whenever possible. And what unsettled me most was how much I was enjoying it.

Dallas was funny, not just sarcastic-funny like he was on camera. He told me stories about his early wrestling days, about the time he accidentally body-slammed his trainer, about the PR disasters that had nearly ended his career before it began.

And he listened, leaning forward when I talked about building my business, asking questions that showed he was paying attention, remembering details I'd mentioned days ago.

By the time dessert arrived I'd almost forgotten about the cameras, that this was supposed to be a performance.

“So,” I said, watching Dallas scoop tiramisu onto his spoon, “I've been meaning to ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“The big dick energy thing.” I leaned forward, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear. “Maybe now would be a good time to give me some advice, since we're on a date?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then another.

“Dallas?”

I studied him across the table. This was a different Dallas than the one who'd been feeding me bruschetta and making me laugh for the past two hours. This Dallas was closed off.

And I had no idea why.

The rest of dessert passed in strange limbo. Dallas was still attentive, still touching me when the cameras demanded it, but something had changed. The easy warmth between us had cooled, and was replaced by a distance I couldn't explain.

He was less flirty. Less playful. When I made a joke about the tiramisu being better than sex, he just smiled tightly instead of turning it into the kind of suggestive banter that usually made me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.

By the time we settled the bill, I was more confused than I'd been at the start of the evening.

The photographers were still outside when we left, but Dallas navigated us through them with his arm around me, polite waves, no stopping for questions. He held the car door for me, slid in beside me, and then…