Page 102 of Shootout Daddies
I stand, phone still pressed to my ear, and open the door.
And the world shifts sideways.
Ivy stands there. Tears streaking her face, her chest rising fast, shoulders trembling. She’s crying.
I’ve never seen her cry like this.
Not once. Not outside the bed, where tears spill from overstimulation, from pleasure wrung too sharp. This is different. Real. And it makes something in my chest tear.
The thought hits me wrong. That memory of her tears on my cock flashes without permission, and I feel myself harden.Shame burns through me. I shove it down so hard it feels like cracking bone.
“I’ll have to call you back,” I cut off the lawyer, my voice flat. I hang up before they answer.
“Sweetheart,” I say, reaching out before I know I’m doing it. “What’s going on? Where’s Chloe?”
“With Brooke.” Her voice is shaky.
Relief drops through me like a stone. Chloe is safe. That is the first thing that matters. Always.
I pull her into the room, closing the door behind us. Her body folds into mine like she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself upright.
“What’s going on, sweetheart? Why are you crying?”
The words tumble out of her in broken pieces. The lunch with Brooke. The dog. The IUD on the rug. The bathroom tests. The pink lines lined up like tiny executioners.
I listen. My chest tightens with every word.
She’s shaking when she finishes, staring at me with eyes wide and glassy, like she’s waiting for me to break, too.
I sit back, force myself to take a breath.
At forty-two, I had given up the thought of having kids. That wasn’t in the cards for me. Not with the life I built, not with the choices I made, not with the years I wasted. I buried the want so deep I stopped feeling it.
Until Chloe.
That little girl got under my skin before I knew it was happening. Her tiny hand clutching my finger. Her laugh when I make faces at her. The way she sleeps, peaceful and trusting, in the middle of a world too sharp for her.
I never thought I would want that. I never thought I would care. But now the idea of her not being in my life feels like an amputation.
And Ivy—standing in front of me, trembling with fear because her body might be carrying something new, something that’s half hers and half someone else’s—makes me feel a kind of joy I can’t hide.
It’s mixed, yes. There’s shock, there’s terror, there’s the lawyer in me running numbers, custody complications, timelines. But mostly?
Mostly it’s joy.
I stand and cup her face, thumbs brushing her wet cheeks.
“Sweetheart,” I say, my voice rough, “you’re not alone in this. I’m here.”
Her lips tremble. “You’re not… mad that I wasn’t more careful?”
“Mad?” I let out a sound that is almost a laugh, almost a sob. “No, Ivy.” I shake my head, swallowing against the lump in my throat. “This all feels like a gift I didn’t think I’d ever get.”
“What if the baby isn’t yours?” Her breath hitches, more tears spilling. She leans into me like I’m the only thing holding her up
For once in my life, I don’t feel the urge to run. I feel the urge to stay.
“Then we handle that too, Ivy.”
