Page 49 of Shootout Daddies
I must look like a hot mess—hair up, bag swinging off my shoulder, baby in tow. But I don’t care.
There’s something weirdly freeing about not caring. About this being temporary.
About knowing I’ll go home to those two overgrown, infuriating, charming men who somehow manage to make every day feel like I’ve stumbled into a different version of my life—one where laughter lives in the corners and breakfast is never silent.
I make it back to the building by seven.
The doorman gives me a nod. Storm leads the way like he knows exactly which button to press in the elevator. Chloe sleeps against my chest, one hand curled in the fabric of my shirt.
When we reach the penthouse, I unlock the door quietly. Inside, the lights are warm, the apartment smells like laundry and lemon cleaner.
Home. Somehow, it already feels like home.
Storm’s water bowl clicks against the tiled floor as he drinks like he’s been parched all day. I double-check the measuring scoop and top off his kibble, then reach over and scratch behind his ears.
His whole back wiggles with excitement as he tears into the food like it personally wronged him.
“Easy, buddy,” I whisper, trying not to laugh.
Chloe stirs lightly on the sofa behind me. I’ve already bathed her, warm washcloth and soft coos, wiped her curls into little spirals, and dressed her in a soft lemon-yellow onesie.
She’s been out cold since.
Storm finishes, lets out a satisfied huff, and trots toward his crate. I guide him in, close the door gently, and cover half the top with the fleece blanket we’ve been using to signal “bedtime.” He yawns, circles twice, then plops down in a heap.
The kitchen’s quiet. Too quiet, if I’m honest.
I lean against the counter and open the fridge, squinting at its disorganized guts—half a container of hummus, almond milk, a mostly-eaten cake I think Hunter brought home after his birthday, a carton of eggs that have been pushed so far to the back I’m almost positive they date back to the start of the year.
I’m still deciding between making pasta or just giving up and ordering sushi when the front door opens with a clatter.
“We’re back!” Hunter’s voice is loud enough to startle the baby.
I whirl around, finger to my lips. “Shhh! Chloe’s asleep!”
They freeze mid-step like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Rhett’s got his gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie unzipped, hair damp from the locker room showers.
“Sorry,” Rhett whispers, glancing guiltily at the bundle of blankets on the couch.
I walk to them quietly and point toward the kitchen sink. “Wash your hands before you so much as breathe near her.”
Hunter nods and heads that way. Rhett leans down first, crouching by the couch with cautious curiosity. He peers at Chloe the way someone would examine a sleeping kitten—part awe, part fear they’ll wake it with a single breath.
I watch them both watch her. The change in their faces is subtle but there.
Soft.
Hunter finishes rinsing off and walks to where I’m standing. His smile blooms slow and warm as he catches my expression. “Hey, baby.”
He surprises me with a kiss, firm and lingering, like he’s trying to apologize with his mouth for being late.
I press my hand to his chest as we part. “Hey.”
Rhett straightens next and crosses the room. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me into a hug and buries his face in the curve of my neck.
“You smell like sweat and testosterone,” I murmur, but I don’t let go.
His lips graze my temple. “You smell like home.”
