Page 22 of Shootout Daddies
He flips something in the pan before replying. “I know.”
“You do?”
He nods. “It felt different. Last night. This morning.”
“Yeah.” I run a palm over my jaw. “Like… it wasn’t just sex.”
“It was, and it wasn’t,” he says, voice even. “She makes youwantit to be more.”
I nod once, not saying more.
He turns back to the stove, stirring whatever he’s sautéing in the cast iron pan. The place smells amazing—spiced butter, garlic, fresh herbs. He’s chopping up something else now—zucchini or green onions, I can’t tell from here.
And then the doorbell rings. Storm perks up but doesn’t move.
Rhett looks over, eyes lifting. “You get it?”
“Yeah,” I say, shifting the dog gently onto the blanket beside me and heading toward the door.
I open it.
And there she is.
Ivy’s in a loose black dress with thin straps and a slit up one side, simple sneakers, and her hair pulled back in a knot. Her face is fresh—no makeup, or barely any—and there’s a big canvas tote slung over one shoulder.
A toothbrush sticks out the top. Inside, I catch the edge of a hoodie, a rolled-up pair of pajama shorts, and—of course—a bag of dog treats.
Her eyes flick to mine, and her whole face lights up. “Hey,” she says, already smiling.
“Hey.” I step aside to let her in.
The second she sees Storm, curled up beside the couch like a spoiled prince, she makes this soft squeal and drops her bag by the door.
“Hi, baby,” she coos, already kneeling beside him. “Look at you, all clean and cozy.”
Storm lifts his head and gives her one sleepy tail wag. She kisses his head and stands, brushing her hands on her dress as she heads toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Rhett.”
He turns slightly, one hand still gripping the handle of a knife. “Hey, you.”
“How’s the pup?”
“He’s good. Slept a bit, ate like a beast.”
She nods. “I’m just… I’m really glad we found him.”
Ivy settles onto the couch.
Rhett glances over. “You eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m making pan-seared chicken with orzo and roasted vegetables,” he says, lifting the lid of the pot. “It’s almost done.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Damn. That sounds like actual food.”
“I kind of know how to cook,” he says, shrugging like it’s not a superpower.
