The Match - A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

by Winter Renshaw

  It has to hurt.

  “You’re an amazing friend,” I tell him. “Know that.”

  Heading home, I turn the corner to my street, and my stomach sinks at the sight of my empty driveway. Pulling into my garage, I snap myself out of it. I have no business being excited about Fabian’s company in any capacity, and allowing myself to entertain that path is a reckless, slippery slope.

  He’s my child’s donor.

  He’ll never be more.

  He’ll never be less.

  I press the garage remote on my visor, and climb out. Only the second I shut the driver’s side door, I catch a glimpse of Fabian’s blacked out Range Rover pulling up.

  Without an ounce of permission, my stomach somersaults.

  Chapter 18

  Fabian

  * * *

  “Any updates?” I park in Rossi’s driveway Tuesday after practice, taking a minute to check in with Steen and Farber before heading inside.

  “We’re getting close,” Steen says. “They’re dragging their feet, but they know we have the upper hand here. Hoping we reach an agreement by the end of the week, next week at the latest. But I’ll keep you posted.”

  Hanging up, I kill the engine.

  My phone dings with a text from Tatum, the tenth one today. Swiping across the screen, I delete the group of messages without reading a single one. And then I waste zero time calling Coach.

  “Tatum needs to back off,” I say when he answers.

  Not that the man has an ounce of control over his spitfire spawn.

  The two have a complex relationship. Coach was never around when she was growing up, mostly traveling and touring with me or the hopefuls who came before me. And when he wasn’t elbow deep in the pro tennis circuit, he was chasing the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It wasn’t until a few years ago I realized the man had a serious problem. I’d found him lying face down in an alley outside a bar in Dublin, having been mugged and then beaten an inch within his life. In an ironic twist of fate, the near-death experience was exactly the wakeup call the man needed to find a newfound appreciation for sober living, and it was during his early days in AA when he reached out to his estranged daughter to apologize for his absence and attempt to make amends.

  Her presence in his life was intense at first. She wanted to go everywhere with him, watch everything he did, jet-set with us around the world. The girl clearly had daddy issues. But she was also fun. Frivolous. The life of the party in a way that I never could be. Raised by a former Hollywood A-list actress and a stepdad producer, Tatum was practically royalty and she owned it.

  In retrospect, we had no business being together.

  But she intrigued me with her fascinating brand of crazy, and she was one of the only women I’d ever met who understood the kind of pressure I was under and who could keep up with me between the sheets.

  Looking back, I was blinded by lust.

  Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

  But everything’s crystal-fucking-clear.

  “Just keep ignoring her,” Coach says. “She’ll calm down if you don’t feed into it. It’s like a dog, you can’t reinforce bad behavior or they’ll just keep doing it.”

  I choke on a laugh. He did not just compare his daughter to a dog …

  Although there are compelling similarities between Tatum and a yappy, palm-sized West Hollywood chihuahua.

  “Been ignoring her for days.” I head toward the front door. “Anyway, if you could talk to her again, I’d appreciate it.”

  Another message comes through—followed by a phone call.

  I ignore both.

  He groans. “I’ll try.”

  “You’ll try?” I chuff. “Imagine if I said that to you on the court. You’d cut my fucking balls off with net string.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll see if I can’t reason with her.”

  Inside Rossi’s house, I pass the living room, where Carina and Lucia are spread out on the floor while Sesame Street plays on the TV.

  “Hi, Baby Daddy,” she calls.

  “Not sure if you were aware, but my name’s actually Fabian …” I tease before making my way to Rossi’s office and rapping on the door.

  “Come in,” she calls.

  “You’re still working?” I check the time.

  “Just finishing up.” Her raspberry-colored nails clack on the keyboard. “Just finished one of the most complicated family trees I think I’ve ever done. Want to see?”

  I take the seat in her guest chair and she turns her rose gold MacBook to face me.

  “Look at this. This woman married this guy. He died after a year, so then she married his brother. Only it turns out it was his half-brother because his mother had an affair with the neighbor. And then the half-brother died, so the mom married a cousin. But the cousin was actually adopted into this huge family with, like, thirteen kids, so if you look here, I’ve got his bio parents and his adopted parents.”

  I’m lost. But I nod like it all makes sense.

  “Isn’t that crazy?” she asks. “All of this because a handful of relatives took DNA tests and submitted them to this database. That coupled with archived public records and I was able to make all of those connections. Insane, right?”

  “Yeah, actually.” I scratch my temple, quietly grateful for my simple roots. A mom, a dad, a sister. A handful of aunts and uncles. Nothing crazy or complicated.

  “You know, even if you didn’t want to find your sister, I could help you put together your family tree. I could potentially trace it back hundreds of years—depending on records, obviously. But I’ve had clients I was able to trace back to 15th century London.”

  With my parents being in their forties when they had me, most of my aunts and uncles are getting up there in age, and some are no longer with us. Once they pass, they’ll take the family history with them. Not that I’ve ever given it much thought. I tend to focus on the future more than the past, and I always have. But once they’re gone, so, too, will be my opportunity to know about any cracks or interesting branches in the family lineage.

  “All right,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  “The DNA testing? Really?” She rises halfway, hovering over her desk.

  “Yeah.”

  Within seconds she’s digging some kit out of a drawer, unwrapping swabs and tubes and laying everything out on top of her desk. Snapping on a pair of gloves, she grins.

  “You really love this stuff, don’t you?” I laugh.

  “Obsessed with it.” She lifts a swab. “Now open wide.”

  I try to picture my family tree now, the little dash beneath my name for Lucia. A dash I never would’ve even known about if it weren’t for the clinic’s error. While my parents are no longer with us, a part of them lives on in my daughter.

  “Okay, all done.” Placing the swabs in a tube, she seals everything up in a biohazard bag before placing it carefully in a pre-labeled mailing envelope. “They should get this in two days, and then it could take a week or two to process. I know some people though, so I might be able to speed that up …”

  “You said you could find Frankie?”

  “I can definitely try. You want me to?”

  “My parents died without ever knowing if she was okay … if it’s this easy, I think I’d like to know.”

  “It isn’t always easy—or fast—but I’ll do everything I can to find her.” Rossi places a hand over her heart, her blue eyes shimmering in the afternoon sun that bakes through her office window, warming her skin. The faint scent of vanilla and peonies lingers between us, soft and sweet. Strong yet delicate.

  Like her.

  “I want to take you out tomorrow night,” I say.

  Toying with the diamond heart pendant at her neck she examines me. “Out? Like … on a date?”

  “Yes. Like on a date.”

  Her brows knit.

  “You said you haven’t been on one in years,” I say.

  “Yeah, but it’s not like I’m missing out on much �
��”

  “Don’t you ever go stir crazy? Sitting in this house seven nights a week?”

  “I’m sorry my life seems dull to you, but—”

  “—that’s not what I’m saying.” I cup her face and drag my thumb along her bottom lip until it turns from a frown into a sly smile. “You’re a mother, not a martyr. It’s okay to do things that are solely for you. And you need balance or you’re going to burn out. Believe me, I know.”

  She exhales, gaze focused on mine.

  “I’ll see if Carina can watch the baby tomorrow night—she owes me for stealing my bed last weekend.” Sliding my hands to her hips, I pull Rossi closer, breathing her into the deepest parts of me because I can’t fucking get enough. “I’ve got a friend in downtown Chicago who owns this Italian place. He’s got a backdoor entrance and a private dining room we can use.”

  “What are we doing?” Her words are slow and laced in reluctance, but her body remains melted against me.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m enjoying myself,” I say. “Maybe you should join me?”

  “I’m not worried about enjoying myself, Fabian. I’m worried about the aftermath of enjoying myself.”

  Slinking away, she places a careful distance between us, perching behind her desk.

  “By the way, my neighbor is coming over for dinner tomorrow night,” she changes the subject. “It’s our Wednesday tradition. Just wanted to give you a heads’ up in case you didn’t want to be here …”

  “Your next door neighbor? The one who’s deeply and madly in love with you?”

  She laughs through her nose. “Yes. He’s a good friend of mine, and I know he’d love to meet you, but I completely understand if you—”

  “—I’m in,” I say.

  Because someone’s got to make sure this neighbor knows his place.

  Chapter 19

  Rossi

  * * *

  “I’ve been trying to get Rossi and Lucia to come out to my parents’ farm in Wisconsin with me,” Dan says over dinner Wednesday night.

  Fabian stabs a forkful of field greens, watching Dan like a hawk as he teases Lucia with a toy lamb.

  “You want to see the real thing, don’t you, Lucia?” Dan asks.

  “At this age, would she even know the difference between a real one and a stuffed one?” Fabian breaks his silence.

  “Only one way to find out,” Dan answers Fabian, but looks at me.

  He’s been doing that all night, avoiding Fabian’s watchful gaze, directing his comments my way. It’s not like Dan to be so cold. I spent all day talking him up to Fabian, telling him how much he’d love him. Now he’s made a liar out of me.

  “One of these days we’ll make our way up there.” I reach for my wine and shoot Dan a calming smile. A second later, Fabian’s fingertips brush against the top of my knee under the table. “You like your salad?”

  “So, Dan, what do you do again?” Fabian ignores my question.

  “Accountant for a Fortune 500 Company,” Dan answers, sitting straighter. “Not nearly as exciting as your job though. I’d much rather be jet setting around the world than working in a stuffy office all day. Unfortunately, my strength lies up here instead of here.” Dan points to his head before squeezing his average-sized biceps.

  Shots fired.

  “Dan.” I clear my throat and shoot him a look. “Tell Fabian about your family’s farm.”

  We need to keep this neutral.

  Rising from the table, I grab the lasagna from the oven while Dan tells Fabian about the homestead that’s been in his family for generations. I’m sure it bores Fabian to death to hear about how they raise sheep and alternate beans and corn every planting season, but I pray it neutralizes the energy between them, if only for a few minutes.

  “This is extremely hot …” I plate their food and top off their wine before taking the seat next to Fabian and straightening the napkin in my lap.

  “So how did the two of you meet again?” Dan points his fork across the table, waving it side to side. “Rossi never really went into detail.”

  Fabian and I exchange looks.

  “We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance,” Fabian answers, leaving out the fact that the mutual acquaintance was a fertility clinic. Close enough.

  “And then you just … randomly … reconnected?” Dan asks.

  “Pretty much.” I take a drink.

  “It’s just weird that all this time we’ve been friends, you never mentioned that you knew one of the world’s biggest athletes,” Dan says, a curious glint in his eye as he examines Fabian. “If it were me, I’d work it into every conversation I ever had.”

  “Yeah, well, Rossi’s not like that,” Fabian says, turning to me. “Which is one of my favorite things about her.”

  Dan clears his throat.

  “So where’d you go?” he asks.

  “Pardon?” Fabian coughs.

  “If you knew her before and you recently reconnected, why was there a disconnect? Did you stop talking to her? Disappear from her life? I guess I’m just trying to paint a picture here,” Dan says. “I don’t do well with ambiguity.”

  “Fabian’s a busy guy,” I say. “And I’m a busy girl. Our paths crossed again at the perfect time.”

  Dan slices a corner of lasagna with his knife before loading it into his fork. Frowning, he doesn’t take a bite. He simply continues to study Fabian.

  At least he’s actually looking at him now—which was more than I could say twenty minutes ago.

  Lucia squeals, tossing a sticky handful of yogurt melts on the floor before knocking her sippy cup aside. Pushing away from her tray, she winces.

  “She’s been in there a while.” I hop up to unfasten her. “I’m sure she wants to stretch.”

  “I’ve got it.” Dan swats me away, retrieving Lucia before I have a chance. She offers him a drooly grin, which he promptly cleans up with her bib before placing her on his lap. With one arm holding my squirmy daughter, he finishes his dinner.

  For the next several minutes, Fabian’s stare is heavy, his jaw is set, and his lasagna goes cold.

  “You don’t like it?” I ask, though it’s a silly question because he hasn’t even tried it. “I used that organic sauce you were telling me about …”

  Forcing a breath through flared nostrils, he digs into his food, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Dan and Lucia.

  Tossing back the rest of my wine, I sit in awkward limbo as Dan bounces my baby on his knee and makes silly sounds that send her into roaring giggles—all the while Fabian shoots daggers his way.

  Is he jealous?

  Protective?

  Rising, I casually make my way to the other side of the table, scoop my daughter into my arms, and carry her to the kitchen. With Lucia on my hip, I begin cleaning up. Maybe I shouldn’t leave those two to their own devices over there, but I couldn’t stand another second of whatever the hell they’re doing.

  “Oh, Rossi, let me help you.” Dan meets me by the island, stacking plates and silverware, washing utensils and placing everything back into its rightful spot—the way he’s done a hundred times before.

  For the next ten minutes, no one says a word.

  On a normal Wednesday, we’d eat dinner, clean up, play with Lucia for a bit, then we’d watch a movie or a couple shows after putting the baby to bed.

  But something tells me that’s not going to happen tonight.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Dan.” Fabian grips the back of Dan’s left shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “Think I can take it from here.”

  Elevens form between Dan’s brows. “I’m confused.”

  Only I know he isn’t confused. He knows exactly what Fabian’s implying.

  “I’ll walk you out?” I offer, before things get worse.

  Dan shuts off the faucet, dries his hands, and exhales.

  I follow him to the front door, Lucia on my hip.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Dan says, voice low. His eyes sca
n past my shoulder, toward the kitchen where Fabian is finishing what he started.

  I debate apologizing—but I stop myself.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  I didn’t participate in the pissing match.

  As far as I’m concerned, they both owe each other some kind words.

  “Call me tomorrow,” he says, a distinct air of concernment in his tone. “I’m worried about this … situation.”

  “Stop.” I roll my eyes and swat his chest. “Have a good night, okay?”

  I close up behind him, carry Lucia to the living room, then return to the kitchen, perching at the island where Fabian waits for me.

  “So?” I ask. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “That guy’s a fucking creep,” he blurts before eyeing Lucia and wincing. “I’m sorry, Rossi. But something’s off about him.”

  “He’s just lonely,” I say. “And protective of us.”

  “Protective?” he asks. “Protective? Rossi, that man wants to wear your skin.”

  I laugh so hard I snort. “Dan? No. He might be a little socially awkward, but he’s no Buffalo Bill. This is not a Silence of the Lambs situation.”

  “It’s weird how much he likes Lucia.” Fabian’s expression sours. “That’s not normal. Grown men parading around babies like that.”

  “Believe it or not, there are guys out there who love babies and who are naturals with them,” I counter. “He and his ex-wife really wanted to have a family, but it never happened. I think he sees Lucia as the daughter he never had.”

  Fabian slaps his hands on the quartz counter. “Yeah, well she doesn’t need another daddy.”

  Lifting a brow, I cock my head. “Fabian Catalano, I believe I’m sensing some extreme jealousy here.”