Page 15 of Shootout Daddies
She turns to us, smirking. “So... now what?”
“Now,” I say, “we eat. Then maybe cuddle.”
“And then you take me home?”
Rhett kisses her shoulder. “Or just let us nap first. Then we’ll drive you.”
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “One nap.”
“Scout’s honor.”
We drag the snack board into bed. Naked. Lazy. Passing cheese and crackers and sliced almonds like this is normal.
She nestles between us, her head tucked under my chin, her back to Rhett’s chest. We’re skin to skin. Her hair smells like citrus and night.
“Tell us about New York,” I murmur.
She hums softly, voice already laced with sleep. “It’s loud. Beautiful…” She keeps talking. I barely catch the words because somewhere in the middle of her describing her old apartment in Brooklyn, I fall asleep—with Ivy warm in my arms and Rhett breathing behind her.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t dream of anything else.
I wake to the sound of a phone buzzing.
At first, I think it’s a dream. Something ambient, background noise from whatever deep, satisfied place my mind drifted to after we passed out. But then it keeps going—insistent and sharp, cutting through the warmth of the room.
The bed shifts beside me.
Ivy moves slowly, limbs tangled in the sheet, her bare back sliding against my chest as she reaches toward the floor for her phone.
Her skin is still warm, still sticky from the night we gave her. There’s a faint bruise blooming at her hip where Rhett gripped her, and the sight of it stirs something low in my gut.
She answers on the third buzz, whispering, “Hello?”
I stay still, eyes half-open.
“Hey… yeah, I’m okay. I just—uh, I stayed with some friends. No, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” A pause. “Yeah, I’ll be back soon.”
She hangs up, then glances back over her shoulder at me. Her hair’s a tousled mess, her lips puffy, her voice rough like sandpaper. Sexy in a way that’seffortless.
“That was Brooke,” she says, tucking the phone under the pillow. “Wondering why I wasn’t home.”
Behind her, Rhett groans and stretches, one arm slung across the pillow where her head just was. His voice is raspy. “What time is it?”
“Six,” she murmurs, dragging the sheet over her chest even though we’ve already seen—and touched—every inch of her.
He yawns, rubs a hand over his face, and pushes up. His abs flex as he sits, the morning light catching the tattoos on his chest. “I’ll make breakfast.”
I prop myself up on one elbow and blink blearily at the massive windows. The ocean is silver and quiet, the city below just starting to flicker awake.
Ivy starts gathering her things from the floor. The way she moves—quiet, deliberate—tells me she’s planning to disappear without making a fuss.
“You don’t have to sneak out,” I say, voice still heavy with sleep.
She gives me a sheepish look. “I just figured I’d grab an Uber. Don’t want to bother you guys.”
Rhett and I exchange a glance. One of those wordless looks we’ve shared a hundred times in games and fights and locker rooms. It’s easy, unspoken.
He raises a brow. I nod.
