Page 9 of Shootout Daddies
Her heels are ridiculous—strappy, metallic, the kind that shouldn’t be able to support a full-grown woman and yet somehow make her walk like sin. Her dress, a slinky wrap of midnight blue, rides high enough that when she shifts, I see a glimpse of smooth thigh I want to press my mouth against.
Hunter’s focused on the road. I’m focused on her.
Her dark brown hair is glossy and loose now, brushed back behind one ear. She smells like blackcurrant and jasmine and something sharper—something crisp, feminine, and dangerous.
The kind of scent that lingers after she leaves a room and haunts you in your sheets. It curls toward me like a dare.
I can’t stop looking at her. Deep blue eyes, pink mouth parted slightly like she’s trying to slow her breathing. She’s trying to play it cool, but I’ve seen that fidget before—the nervous twirl of her fingers on the hem of her dress. She’s jittery. A live wire.
She wants this. She’s just scared of how much.
We pull into the private garage beneath the building—one of those luxury towers right near the beach, where the ocean kisses the city skyline. Our key fob pings the sensor, the gate lifting to reveal concrete lit in warm gold and nothing but expensive quiet.
No barking dogs. No street kids. No chaos. Just security, palms, and money.
Hunter parks in our reserved spot. He gets out and circles to the trunk for our bags. I swing open the rear door and offer Ivy my hand.
She hesitates, like it might shock her. Then she slides her palm into mine.
Her skin is warm. Damp from nerves. I don’t let go.
The ride up in the elevator is silent, except for the soft shuffle of her heels on the tile. She stands between us, arms crossed like a barrier she doesn’t actually want to maintain. Her eyes flit between the brushed metal walls and the tiny screen above the door, counting floors.
“You okay?” I murmur.
She nods, but I feel the tremble in her fingers where they rest against mine.
“Whose place is this?” she finally asks. Her voice is low. Careful.
I squeeze her hand gently. “Ours. We share the penthouse. Hunter and me.”
Her eyes widen just slightly. “You live together?”
“For the last two years.”
“Seriously?”
I shrug. “It’s easier. We travel a lot. It’s a we-didn’t-want-to-live-in-a-hotel situation that turned permanent. It works. We train together, we recover together, and we don’t really get on each other’s nerves. Most of the time. It made sense to just get one space.”
Hunter chimes in with a grin as the doors open. “Speak for yourself.”
We step into the penthouse and Ivy freezes.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap the entire living room, offering a panoramic view of the Miami coast. Moonlight bathes the white oak floors and neutral furniture in a soft glow.
Everything here is sleek—minimalist furniture, dark leather, chrome accents, and abstract art in deep blues and grays. The lighting is warm and recessed, with pendant lights floating above the marble kitchen island.
To the left, a sunken living area with a giant sectional couch and a built-in sound system. To the right, a hallway that leads to our bedrooms, a gym, and the rooftop terrace with an outdoor shower and hot tub.
She turns slowly, mouth parted. “Holy shit.”
Hunter shrugs like this isn’t the most expensive square footage in three zip codes. “You like it?”
She laughs, breathless. “A place like this would cost a fortune in New York.”
I smirk. It costs a fortune here, too, but I’d never say it out loud.
“Want a tour?” Hunter asks, tossing the bags on the nearest bench.
