Page 20 of Shootout Daddies
Seriously?I should ask Max to gag me right now.
She blinks at me, hope in her eyes, and I know I am well and truly fucked. “You’d do that?”
I nod. “Yeah. I would.”
And I realize in that moment, it’s not about the dog. It’s abouther.I’d do almost anything to keep that sad look off her face. To see her smile again.
Oh, I am so officially fucked.
We leave the vet with a loose diagnosis, a clean bill of health minus a few flea meds, and Max’s warning that the pup is going to need both time and food.
“And structure,” Max had grunted as Ivy cradled the animal in her lap like it was her child. “This one’s been left wild. Probably from a puppy mill if I had to guess. Good luck.”
She thanked him like he’d handed her a bouquet.
Now we’re parked outside a pet supply store, barely fifteen minutes later. I watch through the windshield as she wanders the aisles inside—my hoodie now rolled at the sleeves, a basket hooked over her arm, and that same ridiculous smile on her face as she scans toys and collars like she’s building a registry.
She stops to test squeaky toys. Picks a leash. Selects a plush bed in a neutral gray.
Storm—yes,Storm,because apparently that’s what she’s already decided to name the damn dog—is nestled in the cart she’s pushing, looking up at her like she’s already his person.
Like he knew the second she picked him up off the side of the road that he’d hit the jackpot.
The whole thing makes my chest tight.
I didn’t expect this. Not waking up with her, not kissing her on the mouth like it was a habit, not swerving across a road to avoid a puppy who now lives in my house.
And definitely not the part where I’m standing in line at checkout with a woman who’s going back to New York in a matter of weeks and I’m wondering if I’ll miss her more than I want to admit.
We haul everything back into the car—food, bowls, a squeaky duck, a shampoo that smells like lavender, and a crate that I have no idea how to assemble. Ivy insists she’ll help.
By the time we return to the penthouse, it’s just past ten. The city’s buzzing now—sun full over the skyline, the ocean flashing silver in every glass panel of the towers nearby.
Inside, she unrolls the bed in the corner near the kitchen, lines up the toys neatly, pours food into the ceramic bowl like she’s been here a hundred times.
Storm circles twice and then immediately crashes into a nap beside the toy duck. Ivy squats down, fingers stroking the soft curve of his ears.
I lean in the doorway, watching her again.
She glances back. “I’ll head home for a few hours. Let you both settle.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound too eager. “You’re coming back later though, right?”
Her eyes sparkle with a mix of humor and something gentler. “Yeah. I want to see how he’s adjusting.”
That feels like a win. A reason. A tether. I’ll take it.
“I’ll drop you at Brooke’s,” I offer.
She shakes her head, standing. “Nah, I’ll get an Uber. You’ve done enough. Seriously.” She steps closer, sliding her phone into her pocket. “And if you need anything—or if he does—just call, okay?”
“I will.”
She leans up and kisses me—quick, warm, soft. Not hungry like last night. Not hesitant like this morning. Just…real.
And then she’s gone.
The door closes behind her.
