Page 47 of Shootout Daddies
“Nope.” I stretch my neck. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
He glances sideways. “You like her, don’t you?”
I hesitate. “Ivy?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I pull the keys from the ignition, letting the jingle speak for itself.
Then I say, “I think she makes things feel possible.”
Rhett doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
We head inside.
By the time we’re in the elevator, I’m already picturing Chloe’s gummy smile again, her tiny hand grabbing my hoodie string like she owns me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ivy
There’sa baby in my lap and a dog at my feet and somehow I’m not freaking out.
I should be. Most people would be. Especially when the baby isn’t mine and the dog was a stray just a few days ago, and I’m sitting in a penthouse that doesn’t belong to me.
But here I am, cradling nine-month-old Chloe with one hand while scrolling through the streaming apps with the other, trying to find something that won’t rot either of our brains.
Storm’s head rests on my ankle, his little body sprawled across the rug like he pays the mortgage here. His ears twitch every time Chloe shifts or lets out a gurgle. I swear he’s already imprinted on her.
I settle on a nature documentary—calm narration, soothing music, colorful visuals. Chloe seems to like it. Her big brown eyes blink slowly, lashes thick and curled, and for a second I just stare at her.
She’s beautiful. So whole. And so unaware of the chaos that led her here.
She reaches for the beaded string on my sweatshirt. I let her grab it, wrapping her tiny fingers around the soft pull-tab. The fabric bunches under her grip.
She giggles. My chest aches.
I prop her up in the baby lounger Hunter rigged out of couch cushions and an old weighted blanket. It’s not exactly pediatrician-approved, but it works.
Her bottle is half-drained, her onesie freshly changed, and her curls are damp from the gentle sponge bath I gave her this morning. It’s barely 10 a.m. and my day has already included more domesticity than I planned for my entire week.
The apartment is quiet. Rhett and Hunter left for practice an hour ago after a chaotic morning of misplaced burp cloths and whispered arguments about whether they were emotionally ready to raise a child.
Chloe hadn’t even blinked. She just snuggled into me like I was home.
I shift her closer and lean back, letting the couch hold both of us. There’s a peace in the stillness—an unfamiliar, borrowed kind of peace, but I’ll take it. I don’t know how long it’ll last.
By five, the walls start to close in. Chloe’s napped twice, Storm’s been out for a bathroom break, and I’ve read the back of the baby formula tin so many times I could recite the feeding instructions like a bedtime story. It’s time for fresh air.
I throw on a soft gray maxi skirt and knot a faded white tee at the waist. Something light. Breezy. My sandals slide on, simple leather with worn straps, and I secure Chloe in the carrier. Storm’s leash hooks to my wrist.
We take the elevator down slowly. A woman steps on at the ninth floor and does a double take at the baby strapped to my chest and the dog sniffing her ankle.
I smile politely. She doesn’t smile back.
Outside, the sun has started to dip, shining a honey glow over South Beach. The sidewalks are busy but not overwhelming. The warmth feels good, grounding.
Chloe watches everything with wide, curious eyes, clutching a soft teething ring like it’s a priceless artifact.
