Page 74 of Shootout Daddies
“Exactly,” Rhett says. “That way, when we tell him about Chloe, it won’t be tangled up in whatever confusion you feel right now.”
They’re calm. Rational. Nonjudgmental. And the more they speak, the warmer I feel inside. Not because they’re giving me permission, but because they’re giving me space. Trust.
Hunter studies me quietly, then says, “You look lighter already.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Like you were waiting for us to react, and now you know we’re not going anywhere.”
I swallow hard. He’s right. The tension I carried into this conversation has eased, replaced with something steadier. A quiet certainty.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Rhett squeezes my knee again. “Always.”
We fall into easier conversation after that. Hunter sprawls back against the chair, recounting some story about one of the rookies tripping over Storm’s toy the other day. Rhett rolls his eyes and corrects the details, insisting it wasn’t as dramatic as Hunter makes it sound.
I laugh, really laugh, the sound surprising me with how free it feels.
Storm pads back into the room and curls at my feet. The monitor crackles softly, Chloe shifting in her sleep. The condo feels safe again.
Later, when we’re all sprawled on the sofa, Rhett’s arm draped behind me and Hunter scrolling through his phone, I realize something.
This, right here, is why I feel warm in my chest. Not because everything is simple or resolved, but because I’m not alone in it. They’re steady beside me.
I know I have them.
And that thought steadies me more than anything else.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Landon
The vacuum roarsunder my hand as I push it across the living room rug, the steady hum drowning out the legal podcast piping through my headphones. Something about antitrust litigation, though the words slide past without catching.
I just need noise. Noise and movement, because if I sit still too long, my head goes back to last night.
My hand in her leggings. Her body jerking against mine. The way she shook after.
I grit my teeth and run the vacuum back across the same stretch of carpet for the third time.
A knock sounds at the door. Sharp. Intentional.
I yank the headphones down around my neck and kill the vacuum. For a second I consider ignoring it, but the knock comes again, firmer this time.
When I open the door, my pulse stumbles.
Ivy.
She’s standing there in black leggings and a thin gray T-shirt, her hair pulled into a high ponytail that shows off the curve of her neck. She looks flushed, like she walked here fast, and her hands move as soon as her mouth does.
“You can’t just do that,” she blurts. “You can’t kiss me like that. You can’t touch me like that. I’m in a relationship, Landon, and it was—it was reckless and unfair and?—”
“Ivy,” I cut in, holding the door open wider. “Come inside.”
She hesitates only a second before stepping past me. Her sneakers squeak faintly against the polished wood. She stops in the middle of my pristine living room, arms crossed tight.
I shut the door and face her. “I was going to apologize. I wanted to. But I wasn’t sure that if I came over, I wouldn’t touch you again. That’s why I vacuumed for an hour instead.”
