Rossi gathers a lungful of breakfast-scented air and her pretty eyes snap onto mine from across the table, showcasing a glimmer of something. Consideration, perhaps?
“I told you I was falling for you last night, Rossi,” I say. “But I lied.” With my heart galloping in my chest, I say the words I’ve said a hundred times before but never actually meant until now. “I love you.”
Chapter 37
Rossi
* * *
“I’m sorry, what?” I swear I misheard him.
“I love you,” he utters those three little words again, the ones I was certain I hallucinated a second ago. Only this time he says them louder, enunciating each syllable.
But before I have a chance to process it a second time, Lucia grabs a fistful of banana, smears it into a handful of strawberry yogurt, and proceeds to run her goopy fingers through her already-messy bed head hair.
“I need to clean her up.” Without missing a beat, I swoop her out of her high chair and carry her to the bathroom. Snapping her out of her bib and onesie, I adjust the water and place her in the tub, gently scrubbing the food from her tiny body and silky onyx hair.
When I was younger, I had an idea of what my dream life would be. Mostly it involved my first love (before I knew he’d grow up to cheat on me when we were barely out of the newlywed stage). But fate had other plans for me—better plans. I would marry a hundred cheating Bretts if it meant they would all lead me here … to this sweet, simple life with my beautiful little girl.
For the past nine—almost ten—months, our life has been perfect.
No drama. No complications.
Netflix and baby bottles.
Stuffed elephants and gummy grins.
No broken hearts—only overflowing ones.
The idea of uprooting all of this just to take a chance on a man I barely know makes my stomach tangle into seven hundred sailor’s knots, but what if this is nothing more than fate wrecking my plans once again because there’s something better in store for us?
There’s a chance that maybe this new life could be better than any life I’ve ever dreamed of.
I rinse the baby shampoo from Lucia’s hair, inhaling the sharp, sweet, powdery scent.
Maybe we didn’t meet and fall in love and start a family the old-fashioned way, but it doesn’t make us any less of a family.
Draining the water, I lift my baby out of the tub and wrap her in a downy soft towel.
“Come on,” I say as a tickle of butterflies floods my center. “Let’s tell your daddy the good news.”
Chapter 38
Fabian
* * *
“You’re not going to believe this,” Phoebe says over the phone while Rossi and Lucia are down the hall.
“What?” I clear the table.
“So one of my interns was zooming in on Tatum’s ultrasound pic—the one she posted on Insta last week. Don’t ask me why, but hear me out. She noticed that the gestational date and the date on the ultrasound didn’t match up with the due date Tatum’s posted. They were off by a little over three weeks.”
Phoebe speaks so fast, I can hardly keep up, but I’m all ears.
“Anyway,” she continues, “so my intern plugged the gestational age and date from the ultrasound into this due date calculator online, which also gave an estimated conception date.”
“Where are you going with all of this?”
“Fabian, the baby was conceived when you were in Melbourne back in January!”
The plate in my hand crashes into the sink. “Are you sure?”
The last time I slept with Tatum was in December. The Melbourne tournament was the second half of January.
“She’s lying about how far along she is so you’ll think you’re the father,” Phoebe says. “God, I cannot stand that weasel. You have no idea how much fun we’re going to have with this—”
“Is everything okay?” Rossi appears by the fridge, bouncing a freshly bathed Lucia on her hip. “I heard a crash …”
“Phoebe, I’ll have to call you back.” I end the call and turn toward my girls. “I … I’m pretty sure I’m not the father of Tatum’s baby …”
Rossi’s expression softens and she fights the twitch of a relieved smile. “Oh my god. Are you sure? Do you know for sure? How do you know?”
“I’m being told she lied about her due date. I was out of the country when she conceived. And before that, we hadn’t been intimate in weeks.”
Rossi steps toward me, a hand clamped over her beautiful mouth. “This is a good thing, right? You’re happy about this?”
“I feel terrible for the kid,” I say, “but yeah. This is good news for me, not having to be tied to that psychopath for the next eighteen years.”
As the space between us closes, my daughter reaches for me. Scooping her up, I kiss her chubby cheek and inhale her warm, damp, baby-fresh hair.