Page 17 of Shootout Daddies
She pauses mid-motion and looks up at me in the mirror. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”
I nod, but I don’t move yet.
Hunter had to rush out right after breakfast—some emergency call from the auto shop about his car being ready ahead of schedule.
He’d swore under his breath, kissed Ivy’s cheek, and bolted with an unbuttered slice of toast in his hand. Left me with herand a set of directions to make sure I get her home safe and don’tscare her off.
Now it’s just us. And I don’t mind.
She finishes brushing and sets the brush down on the counter. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then I cross the space between us, slide my hand under her chin, and tilt her face up to kiss her one more time.
She leans into it. Her lips are soft. Still slightly chapped from last night, and somehow that makes it even better. Real. Gentle.
She tastes like mint and sleep. Her hand rests on my chest, not pulling me closer, not pushing me away—justbeingthere. The contact feels like a small flame I want to keep cupped between my palms forever.
When I pull back, I search her face.
“You sore?” I ask, my voice low.
She makes a tiny wince. “A little.”
I chuckle, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “We didn’t take you together, but…” I raise a brow, teasing. “Hunter and I are still kind of a stretch to handle solo.”
She snorts softly. “I’ll survive.”
“You did more than survive.” I tap the underside of her chin. “You did good.”
Her cheeks pink. She nods once, almost bashfully, then grabs her phone and bag from the dresser. We walk together to the elevator.
Inside, she leans against the wall, exhaling through her nose like she’s finally letting her guard down.
We reach the car—my black Range Rover, newly detailed—and she settles into the passenger seat, pulling her phone out to shuffle through music.
A soft R&B track starts playing. Not too loud. Not trying too hard.
I glance sideways at her. She’s more relaxed now, legs folded beneath her, hair pulled over one shoulder.
There’s this thing she does—she only really talks when the silence stretches long enough that she forgets to be careful. It’s subtle, but I’ve seen it in people before.
Especially the ones who’ve had to be guarded for a long time.
“You like living in Miami?” she asks suddenly, her eyes still on the road.
“Yeah,” I say, easing onto the freeway. “I was born here, actually. Raised in Little Havana.”
She glances over, eyebrows lifting. “Really? I don’t know why I thought you were Canadian.”
I huff a laugh. “Because I play hockey?”
“Yeah. It’s the vibe.”
“Well, surprise.” I tap the steering wheel. “Full Miami kid. My mom still lives in the same neighborhood.”
“Any siblings?”
“Nope. Just me and my mom. She worked her ass off to keep me in sports. Two jobs. Never missed a game.” I shake my head, smiling. “I owe her everything.”
