Page 115 of Shootout Daddies
I lean my arm against the steering wheel, letting myself watch her for a moment longer. The dress, the way she laughs with Hunter like there’s no anxieties pressing on her chest—damn, she’s beautiful. And she’s ours.
Rhett emerges from the corner store, bags in hand, his baseball cap low over his face. He tosses them into the trunk before climbing into the backseat.
“Supplies secured,” he says, settling in. “Chips, chocolate, Gatorade, and that weird trail mix Landon eats.”
“It’s called balanced nutrition,” I mutter.
“It’s called bird food,” Rhett shoots back, grinning.
I shift the car into drive, merging back onto the causeway. The city falls away behind us, the ocean widening on either side. Ivy hums softly as she sips her juice again, one hand resting over her belly like she’s guarding treasure.
We drive south, the chatter fading into content quiet. Palm fronds whip in the breeze, the sun climbs higher, and soon enough the gates of the private resort loom ahead. Security waves us through after checking the reservation, and the long driveway curves between manicured hedges and bougainvillea.
Then the villa comes into view.
It’s breathtaking.
White stucco walls gleam against the blue sky, the roof tiled in terracotta, wide balconies wrapping around the upper level. Floor-to-ceiling windows flash like mirrors, catching the sea beyond.
The villa sits perched on a rise, steps leading down to a stretch of private beach so pristine it looks painted—sugar-white sand, waves rolling in lazy and turquoise.
“Holy shit,” Hunter breathes, craning his neck.
I park in the circular drive, gravel crunching under the tires. The three of us step out. Ivy lingers by the passenger side, sundress swaying in the breeze, her lips parted as she stares.
“It’s…” Her voice falters. “It’s gorgeous.”
Rhett circles around to her side, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Only the best for you, baby girl.”
Inside, the villa is even better. The foyer opens wide, ceilings vaulted, chandeliers dripping glass.
The living room stretches toward the deck, every inch decorated in warm neutrals and coastal blues. Plush sofas, thick rugs, abstract art that probably costs more than my car.
Hunter whistles low. “Not bad for two hockey idiots and one lawyer.”
“Correction,” I say dryly. “One lawyer, one hockey idiot, and Rhett.”
Rhett flips me off good-naturedly as we wander deeper. There are six bedrooms, each with its own bath, but it’s the main suite that steals the show.
The bed is massive—larger than a king, dressed in crisp white sheets that look sinful just waiting to be ruined. French doors open onto a balcony overlooking the ocean, the sound of waves drifting in on the breeze. There’s a claw-foot tub tucked into the corner, marble counters gleaming in the en suite.
Ivy steps into the room, her hand rising to her mouth. “Oh my god.”
Hunter bounces onto the mattress, limbs sprawling. “Dibs.”
“Not how this works,” Rhett grumbles, dragging him off by the ankle.
I lean against the doorway, watching Ivy trace her hand along the railing of the balcony, eyes wide as the sea air tugs at her hair. She turns, gaze darting between us.
“There are so many rooms. Where are you guys staying?”
“Here,” Rhett answers instantly.
“Yeah,” Hunter agrees, already tugging open the bedside drawers like he expects hidden treasure.
Her brows lift. “All of you?”
“All of us,” I confirm. “We’re not spreading out. The point is to be together. You, us, this weekend.”
