Page 121 of Shootout Daddies
I love that. I love him. I love this so much.
He kisses the top of my head and then says something about Storm stealing a balloon before he’s running off.
Music drifts from hidden speakers—upbeat, cheerful, the kind of playlist that tries to keep adults entertained while children run feral on sugar. Daisy’s laughing with Maddie near the drinks table, her hair glittering under the sun.
Hunter’s in the yard tossing football passes to a pack of overexcited kids, his grin so wide it hurts just to look at it. Landon’s deep in conversation with Tanner about god-knows-what, both of them gesturing with plastic cups like they’re making stockholder pitches instead of talking at a one-year-old’s party.
And then there’s me. Standing in the middle of all of it, rubbing at the swell of my stomach, feeling like maybe for once in my life I belong somewhere.
The gift pile alone looks obscene—designer boxes stacked higher than Chloe herself, ribbons and tissue paper exploding out of gift bags, toys still in their plastic wrapping like a miniature toy store exploded in the corner.
“Don’t get used to this,” Brooke says, sidling up beside me with a smirk. “First birthdays are the one time you can justify blowing a whole paycheck on chaos.”
I laugh. “If I ever throw something like this, shoot me.”
Her eyes drop pointedly to my stomach. “You might eat those words sooner than you think.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through me anyway. “This isn’t about me.”
“No,” she agrees, sipping her champagne. “But it will be. One day. Just wait.”
I’m about to reply when I see them.
Across the yard, near the gate.
Two figures that don’t belong in this Miami sunshine, not in their tailored suits and pressed linen, not in the way they stand rigid and uncomfortable among balloons and squealing children. My throat goes dry.
My parents.
My stomach drops.
My mother’s eyes find me instantly—sharp, assessing, a dagger wrapped in pearls. My father follows slower, hisexpression more guarded, but no less heavy. They cut through the crowd with the kind of presence that makes people step aside without even realizing why.
“Oh damn,” I whisper.
Rhett’s head snaps toward me, following my gaze. His hand finds mine, squeezing hard. “You want me to?—”
“No,” I breathe, my pulse thundering. “I need to… I’ll talk to them.”
My mother doesn’t waste time. She reaches me in ten strides, her lips pressed thin. “Ivy. We’re here to take you back home.”
“I am home,” I say defiantly.
Her lip curls. “I thought you were staying here for Brooke.” She points at my best friend. “Seems like she’s doing just fine.”
There’s a lump in my throat now. “It’s about more than that.”
I can see my mother put two and two together as she looks at Chloe and the three men by my side.
“You have got to be kidding me. A harem, Ivy? This is what you left New York for? To embarrass us? To throw away everything we gave you for… this circus?” She gestures broadly, taking in the balloons, the music, the men circling protectively around me.
My father clears his throat. “Diane?—”
“No,” she snaps. “She needs to hear this. You had a future, Ivy. A real career. Respect. And now you’re parading yourself around like some cheap?—”
“Stop,” I say, my voice sharp enough to cut. My hands shake, but I force them steady. “This isn’t cheap. This isn’t a fling. This is my life. My choice. And if you can’t see that, if you can’t respect it, then maybe you don’t belong here.”
Gasps ripple from the nearby guests. Brooke is already storming closer, her husbands flanking her like an army, but I hold up a hand. This is mine.
