27. Landon
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Landon
Halpern’s voice fills my ear, steady and clipped as always. “Landon, I wanted to touch base about the handover. I know Allyson was supposed to be stepping in this week.”
I grip the phone tighter, pacing the length of my hotel room. The contract was supposed to be done. My summer stint with the Miami Icemen, a neat little bridge before I headed back to Chicago where my life was supposed to resume.
“Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my tone sharp. “I was just about to finalize the handover notes.”
There’s a pause. The kind of pause Halpern never lets sit unless he’s leading up to something.
“Well,” he says, “that might not be necessary.”
I stop pacing. My stomach tightens. “Excuse me?”
“Allyson won’t be taking over the position. She’s been poached. Rival firm. You know how these things go.”
His voice is matter-of-fact, but my brain catches on the words like they are hooks.
“Which leaves us in a bind. You’ve been doing a decent job, better than we expected considering you didn’t want this in the first place. So we’re willing to extend you. Stay on for the season. Full contract. Salary bump, benefits, the works.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
If I was one to believe in miracles, I might think this is one. Just two weeks ago, the deadline to leave Miami felt like it was carved in stone.
Now?
Now I could stay.
I could stay through the season. Stay close to her. To Ivy.
The thought detonates inside me like fireworks, too bright to look at directly.
Halpern’s voice is still going, outlining details, throwing numbers, terms, things that normally would take all my concentration. But my brain is already a step ahead.
If I take this, it means I can be here. When she moves back to New York, I’ll have the paycheck to hop on a flight, to follow her for weekends, to keep her close. I won’t let her slip away, not after everything.
But I’m still a lawyer, which means I know better than to jump without calculating the risk.
“I’ll need time to think about it,” I say, and it comes out calm even though my chest is full of static.
Halpern grunts. “Don’t take too long. We want an answer this week.”
The call ends.
I fist pump the air like a fucking teenager and catch myself grinning in the reflection of the hallway mirror.
The man staring back looks nothing like the one who stepped off the plane months ago.
I’m barefoot, in dark jeans that hang low on my hips, plain gray T-shirt clinging to my shoulders because I’ve been hitting the gym more than I ever did in Chicago.
My hair is cropped the same, but the beard—yeah, the beard is new. Dark, a few flecks of gray in it, trimmed but thicker than I’ve ever let it grow.
I used to keep everything clean, sharp, unyielding. Now there’s softness edging in, a shift I can’t deny.
This city is changing me. These people are changing me.
The vibration on the dresser pulls me from the mirror. I grab my phone. The name flashing on the screen makes my pulse skip.
The custody lawyer.
The one I’ve been trying to get on the line for weeks, chasing leads for Hunter and Rhett so we could figure out Chloe’s future. I swipe to answer instantly.
“Mr. Davis?” the voice says.
“Yes, speaking.”
We dive into it, talking statutes, jurisdiction, which judges lean which way, what we need to prepare in terms of Macy’s abandonment.
My pen scratches over the notepad, my mind running at its sharpest when it’s slicing through details like this. Every answer, every tidbit is a piece of the puzzle for Chloe.
Then—
A knock at the door.
I freeze. The lawyer is still talking in my ear.
The knock comes again, sharper this time.
I stand, phone still pressed to my ear, and open the door.
And the world shifts sideways.
Ivy stands there. Tears streaking her face, her chest rising fast, shoulders trembling. She’s crying.
I’ve never seen her cry like this.
Not once. Not outside the bed, where tears spill from overstimulation, from pleasure wrung too sharp. This is different. Real. And it makes something in my chest tear.
The thought hits me wrong. That memory of her tears on my cock flashes without permission, and I feel myself harden. Shame burns through me. I shove it down so hard it feels like cracking bone.
“I’ll have to call you back,” I cut off the lawyer, my voice flat. I hang up before they answer.
“Sweetheart,” I say, reaching out before I know I’m doing it. “What’s going on? Where’s Chloe?”
“With Brooke.” Her voice is shaky.
Relief drops through me like a stone. Chloe is safe. That is the first thing that matters. Always.
I pull her into the room, closing the door behind us. Her body folds into mine like she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself upright.
“What’s going on, sweetheart? Why are you crying?”
The words tumble out of her in broken pieces. The lunch with Brooke. The dog. The IUD on the rug. The bathroom tests. The pink lines lined up like tiny executioners.
I listen. My chest tightens with every word.
She’s shaking when she finishes, staring at me with eyes wide and glassy, like she’s waiting for me to break, too.
I sit back, force myself to take a breath.
At forty-two, I had given up the thought of having kids. That wasn’t in the cards for me. Not with the life I built, not with the choices I made, not with the years I wasted. I buried the want so deep I stopped feeling it.
Until Chloe.
That little girl got under my skin before I knew it was happening. Her tiny hand clutching my finger. Her laugh when I make faces at her. The way she sleeps, peaceful and trusting, in the middle of a world too sharp for her.
I never thought I would want that. I never thought I would care. But now the idea of her not being in my life feels like an amputation.
And Ivy—standing in front of me, trembling with fear because her body might be carrying something new, something that’s half hers and half someone else’s—makes me feel a kind of joy I can’t hide.
It’s mixed, yes. There’s shock, there’s terror, there’s the lawyer in me running numbers, custody complications, timelines. But mostly?
Mostly it’s joy.
I stand and cup her face, thumbs brushing her wet cheeks.
“Sweetheart,” I say, my voice rough, “you’re not alone in this. I’m here.”
Her lips tremble. “You’re not… mad that I wasn’t more careful?”
“Mad?” I let out a sound that is almost a laugh, almost a sob. “No, Ivy.” I shake my head, swallowing against the lump in my throat. “This all feels like a gift I didn’t think I’d ever get.”
“What if the baby isn’t yours?” Her breath hitches, more tears spilling. She leans into me like I’m the only thing holding her up
For once in my life, I don’t feel the urge to run. I feel the urge to stay.
“Then we handle that too, Ivy.”
Her eyes are red, her cheeks wet, and she looks so small that it hurts to watch. I keep my hand cupped around her shoulder because if I let go, she might slide right through my fingers.
“Sweetheart,” I say carefully, the lawyer in me cutting through the panic, “we don’t have to tell the others yet. Not until it’s confirmed. We can keep this between us until we know for sure.”
Her lips part, trembling, but she nods. The relief that flickers across her face is faint, but it’s there.
“Call your friend and tell her we’re all heading to the hospital. Is there anything we need for Chloe?”
“Just diapers for now.”
I grab one of the diaper bags we keep at my place and fill it, then I make formula and finally get dressed.
“I’ve got everything ready. Let’s tell Brooke to meet us downstairs.”
By the time Brooke arrives, rallying like a general with twins in tow and her new nanny close behind, Ivy is pale but holding herself together.
Chloe is strapped against Brooke’s chest, content and chewing on her fist. Sage and Skye are in carriers carried by their nanny, who looks like she was hired straight out of finishing school.
The hospital parking lot smells faintly of salt and asphalt. Ivy hovers at my side, her arms wrapped tight around herself.
Brooke is already directing traffic. “We’ll take both cars. Ivy, you’re riding with Landon. Claire and I have the twins. We’ll meet you at the hospital entrance.”
Ivy doesn’t protest. She barely speaks.
When we arrive, Brooke insists she’ll take Chloe, but then Chloe squirms, fussing, her small lips rooting. Hungry. Of course. She’s always on her own schedule.
“I’ll stay with her,” I offer before Brooke can juggle three babies at once. “Go. Ivy needs you in there.”
Brooke hesitates, eyes flicking between us. I hold her stare.
“I’ll manage,” I say, firmer this time.
She nods, pressing Chloe into my arms. The weight settles against my chest like it was made for me. The little girl calms instantly, her face nuzzling into my shirt. The trust of it makes something in me ache.
They disappear through the sliding glass doors, and I’m left pacing the sidewalk with a baby against my chest. Chloe breathes steadily, her tiny hand curled into my shirt like a hook.
But ten minutes later, the automatic doors open again and Brooke is waving me over, her expression harried. “Ivy’s asking for you,” she explains. “She’s already in with intake.”
Inside the clinic, the air smells like disinfectant and plastic. I keep my stride steady even though every set of eyes flicks to me and the baby. I don’t care. Chloe coos softly, warm and happy in my arms.
The nurse behind the reception desk looks up, her smile immediate. “You must be Dad,” she says, tapping at her keyboard. “Go ahead, exam room three.”
Dad.
The word punches through me like a fist. I don’t correct her. I don’t even want to.
I knock lightly before nudging the door open. Ivy sits perched on the paper-covered exam table, her legs dangling, hands twisting in her lap. She looks up and her face crumples a little when she sees Chloe.
“Heard you were asking for us,” I murmur, stepping forward.
Ivy takes her, holding Chloe close. Her eyes flutter shut as rocks the baby, a shaky breath escaping her. “I needed my emotional support.”
I sit down beside her, not on the chair but on the edge of the table so our shoulders brush.
“You’re calm,” she whispers, eyes flicking up to mine.
I shrug. “That’s my job. Someone has to be.”
Her laugh is fragile, almost a sob. She strokes Chloe’s hair with trembling fingers.
The doctor comes in, brisk and professional. There’s the routine of questions, vitals, blood draw, the promise that results will take some time.
Ivy answers softly, sometimes not at all. I fill in where I can, steady as a stone. The doctor doesn’t look at me twice when she assumes we’re together. It’s easier that way.
When it’s over, I lead Ivy out into the waiting area, Chloe back in her car seat with Brooke and Claire.
“You need a distraction,” I tell her. “Come on.”
The hospital cafeteria smells of coffee and fried food. I buy her a sandwich and a cup of tea she doesn’t drink, and for myself, just water. We sit at a corner table, the hum of strangers around us a shield.
Ivy stares at her tea, her hands clenched. “Brooke’s been through so much with me. She’s carried me for years. And now this? It feels like one more thing for her to worry about.”
Her voice is sharp with shame.
I lean back, folding my arms, studying her face. “You think she sees you as a burden?”
She doesn’t answer, but her silence is enough.
I let the quiet stretch for a beat. Then I ask, “Have I told you about Teresa?”
“Your ex-wife? What about her?”
“Years ago,” I say simply. “It didn’t work out. She wanted kids. I wanted them too, once. But work came first. Always work. Always my name on contracts, my hours logged in billable time. She waited. I kept pushing. Eventually she left.”
The memory tastes bitter, even now.
“At first, I told myself I didn’t care,” I go on.
“That marriage wasn’t for me, that I was better off without ties.
But that was a lie. What I really couldn’t stand was the weight of failing someone who trusted me to show up.
So I buried it. Buried the thought of kids, of family.
I told myself I didn’t need it. And I kept moving. ”
Ivy’s eyes are locked on mine, wide and wet. “And now?” she whispers.
“Now I’m sitting here watching you twist yourself in knots because you think the people who love you will see you as too much.” I shake my head, jaw tightening. “Sweetheart, they don’t. Brooke doesn’t. Hunter doesn’t. Rhett doesn’t. And I sure as hell don’t.”
Her breath stutters. A tear slides down her cheek, silent.
I reach across the table and catch her hand, threading my fingers through hers. Her palm is cold, damp from nerves. I squeeze gently.
“I’m not saying it isn’t scary,” I admit. “It is. It’s terrifying. But it’s not something you carry alone. Not anymore.”
She stares down at our hands, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. The cafeteria hums around us, the smell of coffee hanging heavy. Somewhere, a machine beeps.
But here, at this small table with her, the world feels narrowed down to just her hand in mine and the future ahead of us.