The Match - A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

by Winter Renshaw

  But turning away money that I can sock away for my daughter’s future would be a prideful move.

  “If you could come in tomorrow, our legal team will be there to answer any questions,” she says, “and to go over the terms of the offer. We would just ask that you sign an NDA in exchange for your settlement.”

  Of course …

  They’re a business and they have to protect themselves. As a fellow business owner, I understand. I’m a liability to them, and they’re essentially paying for my silence. In the end, my daughter will benefit from this. I’m willing to sell my silence for her. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to go on social media and blast their clinic for this careless mistake. That won’t change what’s been done and it would only broadcast my personal business to the world.

  “What time tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Would two PM work?”

  “That’s fine.” Carina will be here with Lucia, and it’ll give me enough time to run to the clinic and be back before dinner. “But just to reiterate, I do not want to meet my donor.”

  “Are there any circumstances in which you might reconsider?”

  “Can’t think of a single one,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Bixby. Two o’clock.”

  Chapter 4

  Fabian

  * * *

  “Mr. Catalano, Mr. Steen, Ms. Farber,” Rhonda says the following afternoon as I take a seat at the head of the twenty-foot table, sandwiched between my attorneys. “Thank you so much for flying out. I know your time is valuable, but I’m positive we can walk out of here with a satisfactory agreement that benefits us all.”

  The conference room door swings open a second later, and in walk two men with matching silver beards and black suits.

  “I’d like to introduce you to our legal counsel from Hawthorne and Gideon LLC,” Rhonda says. “Dr. Wickham will be in here shortly and then we can begin.”

  Yawning, I peer out the window, toward a half-filled parking lot. We took a redeye last night from LAX to O’Hare. Tomorrow we fly back first thing in the morning.

  “Where’s the recipient?” I ask, scanning the room.

  Rhonda folds her hands, eyes averted. “I’m afraid she wasn’t open to meeting you.”

  I see red for a moment, and my skin flashes hot.

  For the bulk of my adult life, anything I’ve ever wanted has been a snap of the fingers away. “No” isn’t a word I’m accustomed to hearing. What mother wouldn’t want to meet her child’s donor father if given the rare opportunity?

  “I don’t understand.” I sit straight, jaw tensing as my gaze bores into her. “That’s half the reason I agreed to this in-person meeting.”

  Not to mention, the meeting is costing an arm and a leg in legal fees. The flights alone were several grand on such short notice, though I intend to have the firm bill Wickham’s office. Had I known the recipient wasn’t going to show, we could’ve fucking Zoomed this shit show.

  Rhonda’s gaunt, papery cheeks flush. “When we spoke on the phone yesterday, Mr. Catalano, I informed you there was no guarantee. I spoke with your recipient yesterday and there was no changing her mind. She was adamant that she not meet you. I’m sorry.”

  I shoot Steen and Farber a look, but they remain impressively stone-faced. As soon as we’re alone, we’ll have to discuss our next move and hopefully get ahead of any impending storms. More than likely this woman is looking to cash in on this … unfortunate mishap.

  The door opens again, this time ushering in a tall, reedy man with salt-and-pepper lining his temples and thick rimmed glasses. The white lab coat covering his suit identifies him as Dr. Martin Wickham.

  “Sorry I’m late, folks,” he says in a humble Midwestern tone. “Was just finishing up an embryo transfer. Can’t rush those.”

  He chuckles as he takes a seat at the far end of the table, opposite of me, and he meets my stare without an ounce of reservation. His casual buoyancy is impressive given the circumstances.

  “Mr. Catalano, as the founder and owner of this clinic, I want to first offer my sincere apologies. This entire thing has been a blemish on our pristine history, and quite frankly, we’re disappointed and embarrassed. We’ll do everything we can to ensure it never happens again,” he speaks as if he memorized a script his lawyers gave him. “In the meantime, we’re happy to offer you a settlement. I know it won’t change what’s already taken place, but it’s a show of good faith.”

  The older-looking of his lawyer team slides a folder to Steen, who flips it open and scans the top document.

  “Is this a joke?” Steen asks, sliding the folder to his partner. “A million dollars?”

  A million? I make that in my fucking sleep.

  “You do realize Mr. Catalano is worth hundreds of millions—and your actions have adversely affected the rest of his life,” Steen adds.

  “All due respect, Mr. Catalano knew exactly what he was getting into when he first made his donation sixteen years ago. While the breach is unfortunate, it doesn’t change the fact that he was okay with the prospect of having a child or children out there who he’ll never know about.”

  Farber clears her throat, tapping her glossy power-red nails on the folder. “This isn’t about that. Obviously our client knew what he was getting into when he signed on for this. This is about the recipient knowing the name of her donor and that donor being one of the richest athletes in the world. There’s a lot at stake for Mr. Catalano. She could make things extremely complicated for him if she wanted to. With cancel culture in the media lately, a single unflattering interview could affect his reputation—which would trickle down to endorsement deals and sponsorships and—”

  Wickham’s first lawyer lifts a palm. “Yes, okay. We understand that. The issue is Dr. Wickham’s insurance company places limits on what they’ll pay out. In this case, they were only willing to pay a hundred grand. But because of who you are, Dr. Wickham is willing to front the other nine hundred from his personal funds. In our opinion, it’s an extremely generous gesture—one he isn’t legally obligated to do. And while we all know you’re not in need of the money, this is our best and final offer.”

  “Everything’s negotiable.” Steen chuffs, shooting Farber a knowing glance.

  “If you want to draw this out despite the fact that your client has no need for any of it, then by all means,” his second lawyer chimes in. “But I’d highly recommend putting this to bed so we can all move on.”

  “How’d this happen anyway?” I interject. “Who’s responsible for sending that letter?”

  Rhonda steeples her fingers. “It was a new hire. She’d only been on the job a few days. Somehow she cross-referenced your address with the recipient’s address. Even she was shocked at the error. Carelessness, I assume. We have no reason to believe it was intentional. In fact, she’s the one who realized the mistake after the mail had gone out. She came to me immediately.”

  “This employee is no longer with the clinic,” Dr. Wickham adds, messing with the pen in his jacket pocket.

  I never met him back in the day. I dealt only with his office staff and the nurses who took my blood and processed my donation. I’d seen his face on a business card by the front desk once. Nice smile. Lots of letters after his name. That’s about all I recall.

  “I don’t want the settlement,” I say.

  Farber taps my hand and mutters something I can’t hear.

  “No,” I say. “I want part of that money to go into a college account for the child. And I want the rest to go into a trust for her. On top of that, I’d like a little extra for the mother.”

  “We’re currently in the process of negotiating a separate settlement with her,” Wickham’s first lawyer says. He raps his meaty knuckles against the table top.

  “Similar terms to what you’re offering me?” I ask.

  His team exchanges looks before the second one answers, “We’re not at liberty to discuss another patient’s settlement with you. I’m sorry, Mr. Catalano.”
/>   I should be back in LA right now, practicing for next week’s Rosemont Open, not sitting here banging my head against the wall with a bunch of apes. Dragging in a ragged breath, I grab a fistful of hair before rising and shoving the chair out from under me.

  “Where are you going?” Steen asks.

  “Getting some air.” Abandoning the conference room, I storm toward the first exit I see—and wind up in the rear parking lot, stopping short in front of a sapphire blue Subaru with an empty gray car seat in the back.

  “Shoot.” A soft voice steals my attention, and when I follow the sound, I find a curvy brunette in skin-tight black leggings that stop just below her calves, a white tank top that scoops low enough in the front to showcase her generous tits, and a faded jean jacket cuffed at her elbows. In a haphazard rush, she gathers the strewn contents of her spilled purse from the sidewalk—lip gloss, car keys, hand sanitizer, Kleenex, wet wipes, a packet of pureed applesauce ...

  Crouching, her silky chocolate waves spill down her shoulders, hiding her face, and the sunglasses that were perched on the top of her head tumble off, skidding across the concrete.

  I seize a bullet of lipstick from the grass—and her scratched sunglasses.

  And then I wait.

  By the time she’s finished, she reaches for the top of her head, feeling around before scrunching her nose when she realizes her glasses are gone.

  “Looking for these?” I wave, her belongings in my grip.

  Sucking in a stunned breath, the woman gazes up at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, so blue they can’t possibly be of this world, so icy and vibrant I lose my train of thought. Framed with a fringe of thick dark lashes, she peers up at me and quickly looks away—the way most people do when they recognize me.

  “Thanks.” Biting a full, rose-colored lower lip, she rises and takes the lipstick and glasses from my hand. “There’s an uneven crack in the sidewalk back there, so be careful …”

  “Will do.”

  Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she steals another glimpse at me before fishing her keys from her bag and striding toward the sapphire Subaru with the baby seat in back.

  “You’re Fabian Catalano, aren’t you?” she asks before she climbs inside.

  Most people typically don’t ask that—they just know. Regardless, I nod and pray she doesn’t ask what the hell I’m doing at a fertility clinic outside Chicago. This is how blind items and TMZ articles get started. Last thing I need is some nosy internet sleuth digging into my business because they saw some gossipy post on Instagram.

  Without another word—and before she has a chance to ask for a selfie with me—I shove my hands in my pockets and strut down the sidewalk, ensuring I avoid the place that caused her to take a spill.

  “Wait,” she calls.

  I turn around and spot her leaning against her car, arms folded casually across her chest as she examines me.

  “I don’t do pictures. Sorry.” I turn away when she calls out again.

  “I don’t want a picture.” She steps toward me, her white Adidas scuffing against the pavement. “I just … this is going to sound weird, but I just wanted to thank you.”

  Facing her again, my gaze narrows. “For what?”

  We’re separated now by a handful of feet, and I find myself momentarily distracted by her pointy chin, her delicate nose, that rosy pout, and those hooded, hypnotic blues. She isn’t like the women back in LA. I swear there’s a legion of clones, all of them with the same overfilled lips, the same wavy blonde extensions, the same fluffy lashes, and expressionless, Botoxed faces.

  Her tank top is tugged down in one spot, revealing a hint of a lacy white bra barely containing her spilling cleavage, but I do my best to keep my eyes trained on hers.

  “I didn’t want to meet you,” she says. “But running into you now—it’d be weird not saying something, right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Rhonda said you wanted to meet me. I told her no, but …”

  My heart hammers in my ears as I stitch this together. “So you’re the recipient.”

  Her pink lips press into a hard line as she scans the parking lot. I follow suit. We’re alone. Thank God. But for how much longer is anyone’s guess.

  “I love my life.” Her left hand splays over her heart, and I can’t help but notice there’s no ring. Not that it matters. It’s merely an observation. “Exactly the way it is. I don’t want any part of it to change, so that’s why I said no to meeting you. But since you’re here, standing in front of me, I just wanted to take the time to say thank you for the beautiful gift you’ve given me.”

  Before I have a chance to process her words, she unlocks her car, climbs in, and starts the engine.

  Strutting up to her door, I rake my hand across my jaw, smirking. So … she doesn’t want to meet me because she thinks I’ll upend her life?

  I rap on her window. She slides her scratched sunglasses over her perfect nose before rolling it down.

  “So … if you didn’t want to meet me, why were you here?” I ask.

  “They wanted me to sign an NDA.” She exhales. “I was meeting with their legal team.”

  “And did you sign it?”

  She winces. “No.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. I’ve a feeling this is going to go exactly how I originally imagined, but I’m willing to hear her out.

  “So let me get this straight, they tried to buy your silence, you refused, and on top of that, you refused to meet with me?”

  The woman nods. “The offer was laughable. Insulting, really.”

  Yeah, tell me about it …

  “I can’t possibly imagine what reason you’d have to meet me.” She runs her hand along the steering wheel, staring forward.

  “How do you know I wasn’t going to offer you some kind of financial support,” I shouldn’t plant the seed, but I doubt the thought hasn’t already crossed her mind.

  “Why would you do that? You have no legal obligation to support this child,” she says. “I don’t want your money. And honestly, the clinic can take their sorry offer and …”

  She bites her lip, silencing herself.

  “You didn’t do this,” she continues. “You didn’t sign up for fatherhood, so I don’t expect you to suddenly be a part of the baby’s life.”

  Baby.

  I hadn’t thought about the age of the child.

  “Honestly,” she continues. “I wish I could unlearn this information. It was a lot easier when you were just some nameless, faceless guy that I didn’t have to think about.”

  “So you don’t want anything from me?”

  “You’ve literally asked me that how many times now and my answer hasn’t changed.” She half-laughs, though I suspect there’s an undercurrent of annoyance there. “Almost feels like you’re interrogating me.”

  Sassy.

  I can respect that.

  “Anyway … I need to get home.” She checks her watch before shifting into reverse, but I’m not ready for this to be over. I don’t even know her name—or the sex of the child we share. Granted, the kid is hers, and legally I don’t have a right to know anything about it. But now that it’s all within arm’s reach, I know I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering. One of these days, I might kick myself for not asking when I had the chance.

  “Boy or girl?” I ask.

  Head tilted, she flattens her pretty mouth. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “Just curious.”

  She hesitates, knuckles turning white as she grips the steering wheel. “Girl.”

  “Does she look like me?”

  She exhales, pausing again as she stares straight ahead. “Spitting image. Eyebrows and all.”

  “Healthy?”

  “Extremely,” she answers.

  “What’s she like?”

  Her lips begin to move, but then she stops. Flicking her sunglasses over her head, she angles her attention my way. “I
saw an interview you did once. The lady asked you something about when you were going to start a family and you stormed off the set. I guess I’m just confused as to why you’re suddenly interested in a kid you never knew existed … and you don’t even want kids in the first place.”

  Ah, yes. The Katherine Kingman Show a few months back. In the pre-interview, my team had informed her on numerous occasions not to mention my engagement (which was already on thin ice), only the defiant gossip queen proceeded to not only bring up the impending nuptials, but she then took it a step further and brought up children—a hot button topic between my then-fiancée and me at the time.

  Saying on camera that we weren’t going to have kids would’ve started WWIII at home.

  Saying we were considering it would’ve given her false hope.

  No matter what answer I gave, I’d have been fucking myself over.

  So rather than respond, I tore off my mic pack and exited stage left. I wasn’t going to sit there like a doormat and be disrespected by a spray-tanned, fake-toothed woman gaming for ratings at the expense of my personal life.

  Although I have zero desire for a family of my own, storming off her set had absolutely nothing to do with my feelings toward children and everything to do with respect.

  Respect for myself, for my relationship at the time, and for the boundaries that woman crossed without a second thought.

  “I’m navigating this minute by minute—just like you,” I tell her. “Half the time, I don’t know what to think.”

  “I just think maybe it’s not a good idea to talk about her anymore.” She bites her lower lip and offers an apologetic expression. Cupping a hand over her heart, she says, “Thank you again, Fabian.”

  Her car begins to roll backwards and she glances in the rearview.

  “Wait.” I hook my hands on the frame of her open window. “I don’t even know your name.”

  Looking away, she drags in a breath so hard it lifts her shoulders. “And we should keep it that way.”

  I release my hold on the door and watch the nameless mother of my child drive away, her license plate so dusty I can only make out three letters—SRY.