Page 70 of Shootout Daddies
She groans, burying her face in her hands again. “I didn’t mean—okay, I did, but—shut up.”
We tease her until she swats at both of us, her laughter spilling into the room like light.
Before long, we’re all stretched out on the couch together, plates empty, the game playing low in the background. Hunter’s arm is around Ivy, her head tucked into his chest, and I’m on her other side, stroking her arm.
The earlier panic is gone. Replaced by something steady. Warm. Real.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ivy
The sheets smell like them.Like us.
I tug them free from the bed and ball them into my arms, smiling despite myself as I think about this morning.
My body still hums from the memory—my knees pressed into the mattress, my cheek to the pillow, their hands on my hips. The way they whispered in my ear, voices low and rough, until I couldn’t think anymore.
I shake my head as if that will chase away the heat pooling under my skin. I toss the sheets into the washer, measure detergent, and press the start button. The machine hums, water rushing in.
Chloe’s asleep. The monitor sits on the counter, her tiny breaths a soft static in the background. The condo is quiet, finally.
Which is why the knock on the door makes me jump.
I wipe my palms on my leggings and walk to the front door, already frowning. The guys said they’d text before coming back. Brooke’s working late.
When I open the door, my breath stalls.
Landon.
He stands there in a suit, jacket undone, tie loosened like he’s just come from a meeting. His eyes—sharp, assessing—pin me in place.
“Hi,” I manage.
“Can I come in for a minute?” he asks.
I blink. Of all the people I expected on my doorstep this morning, he was not one of them. Still, I step aside. “Sure.”
He walks in, controlled, precise, like even the way he crosses a room has to be efficient. The scent of his cologne lingers as he passes, darker than Rhett’s, sharper than Hunter’s.
I shut the door and turn, suddenly nervous. He’s standing in the living room, glancing around like he’s cataloging details he’ll later file away in some mental folder. His gaze snags on the baby monitor, then flicks back to me.
“I came to apologize,” he says. His voice is lower than usual, rougher, like he doesn’t use it much outside of courtrooms.
“For yesterday?”
He nods once. “I shouldn’t have walked in. Should have knocked harder, made sure. That was on me.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. My throat feels tight. “It’s… fine. Really.”
He looks at me for a long moment, searching. Something about it makes me shift my weight, tug at the hem of my sweatshirt.
When he turns to leave, instinct makes me stop him. “Wait.”
He pauses, hand on the doorknob.
The words spill out before I can second-guess myself. “Why don’t you like me?”
He turns back, brows pulling together. “What?”
