“Let’s do it.”
We park in the back row of a gravel lot just past the sign for Potter State Park. With impressive efficiency, Rossi climbs out, straps the baby to a carrier on her chest, and I meet her by the trunk to grab the basket and blanket.
Following a dirt path, we find a quiet clearing in the middle of an oaky section of woods and set up camp.
“Okay, are these not the cutest things you’ve ever seen in your life?” Retrieving a pair of baby-sized sunglasses from her jacket pocket, Rossi slips them over Lucia’s face.
I don’t melt, but if I did, I’d be a fucking puddle right now.
Lucia giggles, stretching her hands toward the sky and examining them with her new, tinted vision.
“That’s … wow.” I’m at a loss for words because “adorable” and “precious” aren’t exactly in my day-to-day vernacular.
“You should see her baby Converse,” she adds. “They’re a couple of sizes too big right now, but I’m hoping by the time she starts walking …”
“Baby Converse? I didn’t know they made such a thing.”
Rossi digs into the picnic basket, producing a meticulously arranged tray of artisan crackers, sliced cheeses, green olives, a small bowl of cut fruit, two jars of baby food, a bottle, some white wine, and two goblets.
“I feel like I’m forgetting something …” She examines the spread, her expression pinched.
“You’re forgetting to relax.” Before I can say another word, my phone rings. Without checking the Caller ID, I silence it.
“If you need to get that, it’s fine.” Rossi points before popping a red grape in her mouth. It fills the side of her cheek as she chews, but all I can focus on are those rosy lips and how sweet they probably taste. Unscrewing the cap on a jar of pureed prunes, she props Lucia on her lap and loads a tiny scoop onto a rubber spoon.
My phone rings again, but once more I silence it.
I’m here to spend time with Lucia and Rossi—everything else can wait.
“Maybe it’s the mattress people?” Rossi asks. “What time did you say they were dropping it off?”
“Between three and four. You want some wine?” I uncork the bottle and pour two generous glasses.
“So what’s your schedule going to be like while you’re here?” She serves Lucia another mouthful of dark purple mush.
“Practice five mornings a week,” I say. “With the occasional Saturday. But afternoons and evenings are for Lucia. And for you.”
Getting to know my child’s mother is just as important as getting to know my child—in their own regards.
Lucia shoves away the next bite Rossi offers, making a mess of the purple-brown liquid.
“Shoot,” she says. “Can you grab me some baby wipes out of the picnic basket?”
A second later, we’re wiping up the amazingly large mess that came from the tiny human and the microscopic spoon, and Lucia’s relaxing between us on her back, trying to shove a foot in her mouth.
“She’s very flexible,” I say. “Pretty sure she gets it from me.”
Rossi laughs. “One hundred percent.”
The sun peeks out from behind a paper-white cloud and thaws the spring chill around us, enveloping the three of us in an otherworldly warmth. Out here, I’m not thinking about my next win. I’m not mentally replaying the last thing they said about me on ESPN. I’m not fielding fans or getting reamed by my coach for having an off day.
I’m simply existing.
I imagine this is the sort of thing people are referring to when they say money can’t buy happiness.
Rolling to her side, Lucia reaches for a handful of grass, ripping it at the roots and attempting to shove it into her mouth—until her mother intervenes.
“You’re not hungry, but you’ll eat dirt and grass?” Rossi brushes the earthen debris out of the baby’s fists.
Scooping her up, Rossi lies on her back and holds Lucia over her, making her “fly” as she attempts to make a sound akin to a single engine airplane in distress. Fighting a chuckle, I sip my wine and bask in the carefree moment taking place before me. Rossi doesn’t care what I think, she doesn’t care how ridiculous this looks—she’s simply a mother doing what it takes to put a smile on her child’s face.
“Your turn.” Sitting up, she offers Lucia my way.
I take my daughter, reluctantly. “I’m really not good at this.”
“Play peek-a-boo or something.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. It’s like stepping onto foreign land and not knowing an ounce of the customs.
“Okay …” Clearing my throat, I ignore the fact that Rossi’s observing me with an incredibly entertained smirk on her face, and then I hide my eyes with one hand while supporting the baby on my lap. “Peek-a-boo.”
“Come on.” Rossi tucks her chin against her chest. “You can do better than that.”
“What was wrong with my peek-a-boo?”
Laughing, she says, “Everything.”
“Fine.” Sitting straighter, I try it again, louder this time. “Peek-a-boo!”
Lucia startles, craning her little neck to ensure her mother’s still nearby.
“Now you’re scaring her,” Rossi says, biting her lip as her eyes twinkle.
“I told you, I’m terrible at this.”
“You hear this, Luc?” Rossi leans in. “The world’s best tennis player is a terrible peek-a-booer.”
“Doesn’t help that I’m performing in front of the world’s toughest crowd.”
“Try it one more time,” Rossi says. “And I’ll look away since you’re so sensitive.”
“Perfectionistic.”
“Same difference,” she says, turning away. Though I don’t need to see her face to know she’s probably holding in the biggest shit-eating grin. Not that I blame her. If I weren’t me, I’d find this entire thing ridiculous.
But this is my daughter.
“Peek,” I say, pausing and adding a higher inflection in my tone. I’m sure I sound like an idiot, but whatever. Hiding my eyes behind my palm, I wait a few seconds before the big reveal. “A-boo!”
Lucia’s chocolate eyes light and she claps her hands before promptly shoving them in her mouth.
My heart flutters—something it’s never done for a baby before.
Confidence bubbling, I do it again. “Peek … a-boo!”
God, I’m cringing inside … but I’m also living for this.
Lucia claps again, bouncing in my lap.
With every gummy grin, my body grows lighter, my cares unimportant. And I get it now, why adults make complete and utter fools of themselves for something so frivolous as a laughing baby.
Turning back, Rossi winks. “Told you …”
“Yeah, yeah.” I hand Lucia back to her mother, polish off the rest of my wine, and stand to stretch. The last time I sat on the ground to eat was at a Michelin star restaurant in Tokyo several years ago.
“You want to walk the trail?” Rossi asks.
My muscles scream from the brutal training we did today—Coach gave it to me twice as hard since I’d missed a couple days the week before and because he claims I’m not focusing like I should be.
He isn’t wrong.
“Yeah,” I say, fetching the baby carrier off the blanket.
“Good call.” Rossi rises, taking the carrier from my hands before positioning it over my arms, loosening the straps until it fits, then fastening it into place. Next thing I know, she slides the baby into the opening—and I’m officially wearing her.
I’ll just tack this onto my growing lists of firsts …
“You don’t have to hold onto her,” Rossi says, pointing to my hand placement on the carrier—one beneath the baby’s behind and the other over her chest. “She’s not going to fall.”
“You sure?”
She nods. And I let go, taking a few steps until I’m comfortable with the fact that she’s securely strapped to my chest and not going to slip and crack her head.
/> “It’s sweet how gentle you are with her,” she says. “You’re covered in muscles and one of the most agile, coordinated people in the world, but you always hold her like she’s a Faberge egg. I like it.”
“As opposed to being rough with her?” I tease.
I’ll never forget my first pro tournament, how adrenaline coursed through me and made me hypervigilant of every move I made. In some ways, handling Lucia is no different. I’ve never handled something so fragile, with so many rules.
Packing up our things, we head for the dirt path, the strange little crew that we are, and make our way around the pond. We stop to admire a family of ducks, which elicits a squeal of excitement from Lucia. And Rossi impressively points out various types of trees and shrubs to her daughter. Not that she can understand any of it. Thirty minutes later, we’re back where we started, in the little gravel parking lot, loading everything back into Rossi’s Subaru.
“You did good today,” she says when she slides the baby from the carrier on my chest. I pull the contraption over my head and stick it in the trunk while she buckles Lucia into her car seat. “Not that I doubted you for a minute. I think I’ve figured you out.”
“How so?” I climb into the passenger side.
Rossi gets in beside me, starting the engine. “You’re one of those people who are good at everything.”
“I’ll try not to let that go to my head.” Turning my phone on, I check my voicemail as we pull out of the parking lot. One from Coach. One from my agent. And six from my ex. I delete each one from Tatum, not even bothering to check the transcribed versions because if the past is any indication, they’re all likely gibberish because the automatic dictation can never keep up with her screaming fits.
We’re almost home when my phone dings with a text.
COACH: Sorry. Tatum found out you’re in Chicago with another woman.
My jaw flexes as I tap out a response.
ME: She found out? Or you told her?
COACH: She’s a smart girl. You know that. Asked a million questions and read between the lines.
COACH: I’ll deal with her though. Just ignore.
“Everything okay?” Rossi asks. “You’re breathing kind of heavy over there.”
“Everything’s fine.” I lie. Sort of. Tatum is a spitfire when she wants something, and while we officially ended our engagement months ago—with a press release and joint statement—I know deep down she thought we’d get back together.
I picture her stewing in her West Hollywood penthouse, pacing her expansive walk-in closet and pausing every so often to refresh all of my social media accounts in search of clues.
Sliding my phone out of sight, I lean back into the seat and attempt to forget about the drama for a moment.
“Lucia, it’s our song …” Rossi calls out before dialing the volume up a couple of notches and cracking the window a couple of inches. A second later, some catchy, tinkly vintage pop song plays over the radio, and it takes a moment, but I recognize it as Forever Your Girl by Paula Abdul. Bopping her head and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she sings along—albeit slightly off pitch—as the baby kicks along in the back.
Tatum would’ve never driven anywhere with the windows remotely down. The only time she’d dance was at a club, after half a bottle of 818 Tequila. And she’d never tap her fingers along to the radio. She was too ‘cool’ for that. In fact, she’d be the first to make fun of people who drove around LA singing along to the radio as they sped down the freeway.
I may not know Rossi Bianco—yet—but already she’s a breath of fresh-fucking-air.
And that puts her miles above any other woman I’ve ever met.
Maybe I came here for Lucia … but I might have to stay for her mother.
Chapter 15
Rossi
* * *
“Is she out?” I’m perched in the hall Saturday night after assigning Fabian the task of putting the baby to bed. Our time together is limited. If I’m going to be comfortable letting him into our life in some capacity, I want them to have a bond.
“Cold,” he says, pulling the door closed with a soft click.
“Proud of you today.” I tug the burp rag off his shoulder and take the bottle from his hand. “First peek-a-boo, then the Baby Bjorn. Now bedtime. What’s next for you?”
His full lips arch as he readies a response, only he stops. Sniffs. Then glances down at his t-shirt where a very prominent, still moist spit-up stain resides.
“Oh, here—” I’m about to hand him the rag … when he rips off his shirt. My mouth dries and I swallow. “That works too.”
“Where’s your laundry?”
“It’s the door at the end of the hall, between your room and mine,” I say, pointing. “You can throw it on top of the washer. I’ll take care of it. I’ve got a whole system for getting formula stains out. The key is to use OxiClean and vinegar or you’ll never get the smell out.”
Fabian drops the shirt off in the laundry room, only instead of making a pit stop in the guest room for a fresh shirt, he returns shirtless.
My skin flushes hot, and it takes everything I have to keep my eyes from roaming the great muscled plains of his chiseled upper body.
I mean, seriously.
How is he real?
And how is he my child’s father?
Helping himself to the fridge, he grabs a bottle of water and meets me by the sofa.
“Hope you’re not planning on being entertained tonight,” I say. “Because this is a typical Saturday night in the Bianco household. Baby’s in bed by eight. And I usually spend an hour looking for something to watch on Netflix before giving up and passing out on the couch. It’s a glamorous existence we lead. I really hope you’ll be able to keep up these next few weeks.”
He chuffs, uncapping his water.
“Hold on. Someone’s calling.” I pull my buzzing phone from my pocket. “It’s my sister. Two secs.” I press the green button and lift it to my ear. “What’s up?”
“I. Fucking. Hate. Men,” she groans.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Stood up,” she says. “Again.”
“I’m so sorry.” If I haven’t lost count, that’s the fourth time this year. Added to the eight times last year. For whatever reason, Carina is a magnet for these types. “Don’t let him ruin your night. Go meet up with your friends at The Lounge for a drink or something.”
“I’m actually a block away. I thought I could just chill with you tonight?”
“Oh.” My gaze flicks across the room to where a very shirtless, very watchful Fabian waits for me to finish my call. “Um.”
“Oh, shit. I forgot Baby Daddy is there,” she says. “Never mind. I’ll go home.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Stop by.”
“You sure?” she asks, followed by the slamming of a car door—which I hear both via the phone and coming from my driveway. A second later, the garage door whines open and my sister blasts through the entrance. “Oh.” She stops in her tracks when she spots Fabian. “Ohhh.”
“Sorry,” I say to him. “I didn’t realize my sister was fifty feet away when she said she was a block away.”
“I can leave,” Carina says.
“She got stood up,” I tell Fabian.
“Sorry to hear that.” He rises, disappearing into the guest room and returning tragically clothed. Though it’s for the best, because my thoughts were starting to take the road less traveled, and who knows where that would’ve led.
Helping herself to my kitchen, Carina grabs a bottle of green apple vodka, a carton of apple juice from the fridge, and a tall glass.
“I just don’t get it,” she says, mixing up a poor man’s apple martini. “We were texting for months. Had so much in common, more chemistry than I’ve had with anyone in forever. Like he ‘got’ my sense of humor—no easy feat as you know. He was even asking me about travel plans for this summer, telling me there’s this really great lake we should hit up.” She tosses
back a mouthful. “So we finally make plans to meet. I show up. Text him to let him know I got us a table in the corner. No response. And then I wait. And I’m waiting, waiting, waiting. And I’m sitting there looking like a loser, you know? So finally after forty minutes, I just left.”
“I’m so sorry.” I hunch over the island and give her my sad, puppy dog eyes. I don’t miss the dating world, and honestly, I’m grateful to be out of it. It’s toxic. Terrifying. Unpredictable. Maybe I’ll stick my toes back in someday, when my dating pool beckons calm, divorced, established businessmen with grown kids. Until then, I’ve got Lucia and our perfect little drama-free life.
“Why do you guys do this?” Carina directs her question toward Fabian, who shoots her a deer-in-headlights look.
“I don’t think we need to lump Fabian into any of this,” I say.
“I’ve never stood anyone up,” he says. “But I know people who have. It always boils down to fear. They’re afraid you won’t like them in person, they’re afraid it’ll be awkward, they’re afraid you’ll see them for who they really are and not for the larger-than-life person they were pretending to be online. It’s almost never personal.”
Clamping a hand over her chest, my sister practically swoons, head tilted and all.
“Oh my gosh, Fabian,” she says. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Really?” I chuckle. “That’s the sweetest thing?”
“I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean,” she snaps.
“Anyway, consider yourself lucky,” he tells her.
“I feel like I should pay you for that advice,” she says. “That was gold. Here. This one’s on the house.”
Carina mixes Fabian his own poor man’s appletini and slides it to the end of the counter.
“You don’t have to drink that,” I tease.
“Just for that, you get one too.” Carina fixes me the same sickly, yellow-green cocktail, placing it in my hands. And for the next two hours, we ensure my sister doesn’t have to drink alone.
Prancing off to relieve my bladder, I return to the living room only to find Carina passed out cold in one of my chairs.
The Match - A Baby Daddy Donor Romance Page 11