5. Rhett
CHAPTER FIVE
Rhett
“Do you need anything else before we go?” I ask her quietly, leaning against the bedroom doorframe with one shoulder, watching her brush out the ends of her hair.
She’s in my sweatpants and an old team T-shirt I must’ve left on the dresser last night—one of those soft, worn things from a rookie year promo run.
On her, it looks obscene in the best possible way. Loose but riding up high, brushing the tops of her thighs when she moves.
Her bare feet skim across the hardwood. Her hair—dark, silky, and damp from the quick rinse she took earlier—falls in slow ribbons over her shoulder as she finishes a stroke with the brush.
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 her and a set of directions to make sure I get her home safe and don’t scare 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—just being there. 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 WTF?
I stare at the message for a while. Then type.
Long story. We have a dog now.
There is a pause. Then…
I thought you hated dogs.
I type back…
Ivy loves the dog.
I lock the phone before I can read his next message and stare at the pet I have now officially adopted somehow.
Yeah.
I really am in fucking trouble.