Page 52 of Shootout Daddies
Once Chloe is asleep and the monitor is positioned, we all tiptoe out. Ivy closes the door softly behind her, then turns to me.
“Have you two talked about paternity yet?”
Hunter sighs. “Not exactly a priority when you’re figuring out how to burp a nine-month-old.”
“It’s important,” she says gently. “You need to know who she belongs to. Or at least try to.”
I nod. “We’ve been talking about it. But I don’t know where to even start.”
“That’s why you should ask Landon.”
Hunter freezes.
I rub the back of my neck. “Our lawyer?”
“Yes. He knows this stuff. And the sooner you bring him in, the sooner you’ll have answers.”
“I don’t know if we can trust him.”
Ivy lets out a quiet breath. “It’s not about trust. It’s about facts. He’s the team’s legal rep. And let’s be real—he already saw me with you, and me with the baby. It’s only a matter of time before he says something.”
Hunter frowns. “From what you’ve described, I’m not sure he’s one to keep a secret.”
“That’s just his face,” Ivy says dryly. “I doubt he smiles unless there’s a merger involved.”
I laugh. “That sounds about right.”
We head toward the kitchen. Chloe’s bottles are washed and drying on the rack.
Ivy opens the fridge and pulls out one of those soft fruit melt packs she swore were perfect for bedtime feeding. We warm it gently in a mug of hot water, then carry it back to the nursery.
She’s still asleep when we enter, but the moment Ivy lifts her, Chloe stirs, blinking up at us with bleary brown eyes.
“Hi, sweet girl,” Ivy coos. “Hungry?”
Hunter stands beside her as Ivy feeds Chloe. She eats quietly, messy at first but then calmer. Afterwards, she nestles into Ivy’s chest, thumb in her mouth, eyelashes fluttering shut again.
I don’t realize how hard I’m holding my breath until Ivy nods toward the baby monitor.
“Let’s go,” she whispers.
We walk her to my room.
It’s warm in here. I left the windows cracked earlier, and the scent of citrus from Ivy’s shampoo still lingers faintly. She pads into the bathroom, switching on the shower. The sound of water is instant, muffled behind the thick glass.
I start to unbutton my shirt, but I pause when I see her pulling out hair ties and brushing her curls, all under the light of the vanity.
“I’ll do that,” I murmur.
She glances at me in the mirror. “Do what?”
“Wash your hair.”
She grins. “Seriously? You know when I mentioned that I needed to wash it while we were in the store, I wasn’t hinting at it or anything.”
“I know… and seriously. Please.”
A minute later, we’re both in the shower, and I’m working the shampoo into her scalp with slow, careful fingers. Ivy’s head is tilted back slightly, her eyes closed, water streaming in rivulets down her spine. Her breath comes in steady, quiet waves.
