12. Ivy
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ivy
There’s a 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.
We pass a produce market, and I stop to grab a few things—bananas, almond milk, a pack of croissants.
At the corner coffee shop, I pause. Storm pants at my side, tail wagging slightly as I secure his leash to the metal hook near the door. I walk in with Chloe, already pulling my card from my pocket.
I’m halfway through ordering a lavender oat milk latte when I spot him.
Salt-and-pepper hair, perfectly combed. Broad shoulders under a tailored dress shirt. There’s a sleek laptop on the table and a tablet open beside it.
It takes me a second to place him.
The man from this morning. The scratched car. The one whose expression could curdle cream.
I consider pretending I didn’t see him, but I don’t want to be that person. So I walk over, offering a tentative smile.
“Hey,” I say softly, shifting Chloe higher against my chest. “Small world.”
He doesn’t look up. “Hold on,” he murmurs, one finger raised. It’s then I notice the old-school Bluetooth earpiece clipped to his other ear.
I almost laugh. A Bluetooth? In this day and age?
He finishes his sentence—something about contract breaches and revised NDAs—and finally meets my eyes. His are steel-gray, unreadable but sharp. Everything about him is calculated.
“London, right?” I offer with a smile, adjusting Chloe’s strap.
“Landon,” he corrects, voice smooth but unimpressed.
“Right. Sorry. Again. For this morning.”
“It’s okay,” he says, but I have a feeling that it is anything but.
I glance at Chloe. She blinks up at him, entirely unbothered.
“This is, um… this is Chloe,” I say, touching her curls. “Chloe, meet Landon.”
I make it a point to exaggerate the a sound hoping it will thaw whatever animosity he has toward me, but it does not.
His eyes flick to the baby, then back to me. “Yours?”
I hesitate. “It’s complicated.”
He doesn’t ask for clarification. Just stares like he’s building a profile of me in his head—one brick at a time. I hate that his attention makes me feel... small. Like I need to prove something.
“I’m a lawyer too, by the way,” I say, trying to even the scales.
His brow lifts slightly. “Oh?”
I nod. “Entertainment law, actually.”
There’s a pause. A tightness to his jaw. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or just pretending not to be annoyed that I interrupted whatever very important call he was on.
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” I say quickly. “Just wanted to apologize again for this morning. I’ll let you get back to it.”
I back away, nodding once more before turning to grab my drink. I feel his gaze on my back all the way to the counter.
The coffee is hot. Sweet. Exactly what I needed. I loop Storm’s leash and adjust the carrier strap again before heading toward the beach path.
The city stretches out in layers—glass and sea breeze and the hum of traffic. Chloe sighs softly, cheek pressed to my collarbone. Storm trots beside us like a good boy.
We walk for almost an hour. Past families, rollerbladers, couples with matching sunglasses. A little girl points at Storm and says, “Puppy!” Her dad gives me a sympathetic smile.
I must look like a hot mess—hair up, bag swinging off my shoulder, baby in tow. But I don’t care.
There’s something weirdly freeing about not caring. About this being temporary.
About knowing I’ll go home to those two overgrown, infuriating, charming men who somehow manage to make every day feel like I’ve stumbled into a different version of my life—one where laughter lives in the corners and breakfast is never silent.
I make it back to the building by seven.
The doorman gives me a nod. Storm leads the way like he knows exactly which button to press in the elevator. Chloe sleeps against my chest, one hand curled in the fabric of my shirt.
When we reach the penthouse, I unlock the door quietly. Inside, the lights are warm, the apartment smells like laundry and lemon cleaner.
Home. Somehow, it already feels like home.
Storm’s water bowl clicks against the tiled floor as he drinks like he’s been parched all day. I double-check the measuring scoop and top off his kibble, then reach over and scratch behind his ears.
His whole back wiggles with excitement as he tears into the food like it personally wronged him.
“Easy, buddy,” I whisper, trying not to laugh.
Chloe stirs lightly on the sofa behind me. I’ve already bathed her, warm washcloth and soft coos, wiped her curls into little spirals, and dressed her in a soft lemon-yellow onesie.
She’s been out cold since.
Storm finishes, lets out a satisfied huff, and trots toward his crate. I guide him in, close the door gently, and cover half the top with the fleece blanket we’ve been using to signal “bedtime.” He yawns, circles twice, then plops down in a heap.
The kitchen’s quiet. Too quiet, if I’m honest.
I lean against the counter and open the fridge, squinting at its disorganized guts—half a container of hummus, almond milk, a mostly-eaten cake I think Hunter brought home after his birthday, a carton of eggs that have been pushed so far to the back I’m almost positive they date back to the start of the year.
I’m still deciding between making pasta or just giving up and ordering sushi when the front door opens with a clatter.
“We’re back!” Hunter’s voice is loud enough to startle the baby.
I whirl around, finger to my lips. “Shhh! Chloe’s asleep!”
They freeze mid-step like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Rhett’s got his gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie unzipped, hair damp from the locker room showers.
“Sorry,” Rhett whispers, glancing guiltily at the bundle of blankets on the couch.
I walk to them quietly and point toward the kitchen sink. “Wash your hands before you so much as breathe near her.”
Hunter nods and heads that way. Rhett leans down first, crouching by the couch with cautious curiosity. He peers at Chloe the way someone would examine a sleeping kitten—part awe, part fear they’ll wake it with a single breath.
I watch them both watch her. The change in their faces is subtle but there.
Soft.
Hunter finishes rinsing off and walks to where I’m standing. His smile blooms slow and warm as he catches my expression. “Hey, baby.”
He surprises me with a kiss, firm and lingering, like he’s trying to apologize with his mouth for being late.
I press my hand to his chest as we part. “Hey.”
Rhett straightens next and crosses the room. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me into a hug and buries his face in the curve of my neck.
“You smell like sweat and testosterone,” I murmur, but I don’t let go.
His lips graze my temple. “You smell like home.”
It’s stupid. But it makes something tight coil inside my chest.
When we pull apart, I tilt my head. “How was practice?”
“Brutal,” Hunter answers, grabbing a Gatorade from the fridge and tossing me a fresh bottle. “Coach has us running line drills like we’re prepping for a damn Olympic relay.”
Rhett nods. “Leo’s still got war flashbacks from the last time we lost in shootouts. And we were supposed to meet Brooke today,” he adds a beat later, guilt creeping into his voice.
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I haven’t told her yet anyway.”
“Still,” he mutters. “You’re juggling everything. And I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”
I step toward him. “We’ll figure it out.”
He brushes the hair back from my face then—quietly—he says, “How about we clean up and hit the store? We still need baby stuff, right?”
I nod. “We can probably find something open.”
He kisses me again. Then one more time, slower, deeper. I can feel the way his body relaxes just from being close.
“You’re so good to us,” he murmurs, and there’s a weight behind those words that presses into me more than his hands ever could.
My voice is rougher than I want it to be when I answer. “You guys make it easy.”
He hugs me tight. My body hums from the contact, stomach dipping. I press my cheek to his chest and inhale the clean sweat-and-soap scent of him.
When he pulls back, I’m flushed, dazed.
“Go shower,” I say. “We’ll leave after.”
Rhett turns to Hunter, grin spreading across his face. “I’m gonna rinse off. But while I’m gone… think you can take care of her?”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
He looks back at me, playful and bold. “Hunter and I made a deal. Since he was up in the morning with you and the baby, he reaps the rewards.”
My throat goes dry. “Rewards?”
“He gets to eat you out, Ivy. Didn’t want you to feel neglected. Figured he could warm you up while I clean off. Then if you’re still in the mood, I can eat you out after.”
Hunter’s already smirking, his hands on my hips. “Oh, I’ll make sure she’s satisfied by the time you come back.”
“You serious?” I whisper, mouth dry.
Rhett’s already halfway down the hall. “Just don’t wake the baby.”
Hunter leans in, eyes glinting. “Part your legs for me, sweetheart.”
I obey.