Page 109 of Shootout Daddies
Rhett sits heavily in the chair, shaking his head slowly. His jaw is locked tight, his eyes flicking between me and the printouts in the doctor’s hand. He doesn’t speak.
“I need—” My voice comes out sharp. I press my hand to my forehead. “I need a minute. Alone. Please.”
They hesitate. Hunter looks like he wants to argue, but Landon nods once, guiding them both toward the door.
The room is suddenly too quiet.
I press both hands to my face, then drop them to my stomach, trembling fingers brushing over the thin fabric of the gown. Triplets.
Last summer, I was alone in a shoebox New York apartment, eating takeout off paper plates, convincing myself I was fine with a life that felt like cardboard.
Now—this summer is ending and I am unrecognizable. My heart is tangled with three men I never saw coming. My body is carrying three babies I never planned for. My world has tilted so far I don’t know where the horizon is anymore.
I pat my stomach lightly, as if to test if it’s real. “Hi,” I whisper, voice breaking. “You’re… all really in there, huh?”
Tears sting hot at the corners of my eyes. I swipe them away fast.
I wish Brooke was here. She’d know what to say. She’d have some sharp comment, something that would make us laugh. But Claire came down with a bug, and now half of Brooke’s house is sick.
So it’s just me.
My hands shake as I pull my phone out of my bag. I scroll to my mother’s number. Hit call.
One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.
Of course.
The hollow space in my chest expands.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark, then pull up another number. My new employer. The one in New York. The one I’m supposed to meet in less than a week, bright-eyed and ready to start fresh.
The call connects. A clipped female voice answers. “This is HR for Kellerman, Chase & Harlan.”
I clear my throat, my voice shaky. “Hi. This is Ivy Woods. I’m scheduled to start with the firm next week.”
“Yes, Ms. Woods. We have you on file.”
“I… I’m calling to request an extension.” My knuckles whiten around the phone. “There are some urgent family matters I need to handle here, and I won’t be able to relocate on the original timeline.”
There’s a pause. I hear keys clacking. “Normally, that would be difficult. But you come highly recommended by Mr. Woods.”
My father. Of course. His name stretches long and heavy between us.
“We can grant an extension of three months,” the voice continues. “That should give you time to resolve your matters. After that, we’ll need you in New York.”
Relief and dread crash into me all at once. “Thank you,” I whisper.
When the call ends, I sit there in the exam gown, phone heavy in my lap, my hands trembling.
Three months. Three babies. Three men waiting on the other side of the door.
And me—sitting here in the middle of it all, completely changed from the woman I was last summer.
The ringtone yanks me out of sleep. My body feels like lead, sunk deep into the mattress. The kind of exhaustion that’s not just physical but bone-deep, like the moment I walked out of that hospital, my body decided it had carried enough adrenaline and just gave out.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, eyes still gritty. The screen glows bright in the dim room.
Dad.
