The Match: A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

by Renshaw, Winter

  Tatum was nothing more than a shiny doll on a shelf for her mother. A prized possession she could bring out at parties and show off to her friends. I’m convinced Tatum’s entire existence was based on bolstering her mother’s ego and reputation.

  Tatum wouldn’t even know the first thing about raising a child.

  She’s never kept a plant alive or owned a pet.

  This woman couldn’t even raise a Cabbage Patch Kid if she tried.

  “Do you want to go somewhere so we can discuss this alone?” Tatum asks.

  Rising, I clench my jaw. “That won’t be necessary.”

  I check my watch. I’m supposed to be in Culver City in an hour for a photoshoot, and even if my entire schedule was clear, I wouldn’t be caught dead alone with Tatum.

  “We’ll let our lawyers sort this out.” I force a breath through flared nostrils.

  “Wait.” She wraps her hand around my wrist. “You’re just going to leave?”

  “What did you think would happen today? That I’d cry tears of joy and ask you to marry me again so we could be a family?” I chuff, freeing my wrist from her pathetic grip.

  I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that child—if it even is my child—has a decent upbringing.

  But right now, all I can think about is breaking the news to Rossi before she finds out on social media. If she was having doubts about me before, seeing a picture of me with my pregnant ex when I told her I was going home to take care of some business … is only going to compound her misgivings tenfold.

  I can only imagine how Tatum’s PR team is going to paint this scenario, and within minutes of the “breaking news” going viral, there’ll be rumors of us getting back together as well as a plethora of fake blind items and gossip articles.

  I get my silver Maybach from valet and head to the studio, assembling my thoughts and dreading the phone call I’m about to make with every passing second.

  Chapter 27

  Rossi

  * * *

  My phone buzzes on my desk Monday afternoon, but the last name I’m expecting to see flashing across it is Fabian.

  He hasn’t called since he’s been home, though he texted me to let me know he landed yesterday. I was in the middle of feeding the baby, so I sent him a thumb’s up emoji in response. When I didn’t hear back after that, I figured he was just giving me space.

  But it’s strange that he’s calling.

  With a tightness in my throat, I press the green button and press the phone to my ear.

  “Hey,” I say, neutral.

  “Rossi, hi.” My name on his lips still sends a thrill down my spine, though it’s slightly less intense than it was a few days ago. With time, I’m hoping that little sensation fades altogether. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  My stomach hardens.

  Those words are almost always a precursor to bad news in all forms.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” I rise, perching next to the window. Outside, Dan washes his Lexus in his driveway sans shirt. He must’ve taken the afternoon off? I should ask him to wash my car when he’s done …

  “So, you know how I told you I had to take care of a few things?”

  “Yep.”

  “One of those things,” he says, “was my ex-fiancée.”

  My head fills with an image of the text on his screen Saturday morning. I can still see it crystal clear. In fact, every time I close my eyes, it’s there. The human mind can be cruel and persistent.

  “Ever since she found out I was in Illinois … with someone new … she started blowing up my phone, sending me texts about how much she loves and misses me, begging to get back together,” he says. “Calls me twenty times a day sometimes.”

  To be fair, his phone is constantly going off.

  But half the time it’s on silent. And a quarter of the time he places it in the next room altogether. Given his line of work and his celebrity status, I assumed it was par for the course, and I never questioned it—until Saturday.

  “I’ve tried to have her father reason with her, but she won’t listen,” he says. “And I could block her number, but she’ll just call me from a new one. I figured since I was going to be in town for that shoot anyway, I might as well meet with her in person …”

  My insides swirl with nausea, and my stomach fires a sour-hot warning shot up the back of my throat.

  He’s calling to tell me he’s getting back with her. That has to be it. I’m already playing their reunion up in my mind, conversation and all. I bet she dressed to the nines in his favorite outfit, threw her arms around him, and told him she knew exactly where they went wrong. I bet she promised to change, convincing him it could still work, that they could still have their happily ever after.

  If he loved her once, he could love her again.

  That’s how these things happen.

  People break up and get back together every day.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all of that.

  And maybe all the time he’s spent with a “normal” woman in a boring suburban house without a pool and a butler and a tennis court or any of life’s finest luxuries made him realize just how perfect he and Tatum truly were for each other.

  “Rossi, did you hear what I said?” he asks. “You’re quiet. What are you thinking about?”

  Shit.

  I completely tuned him out while I was lost in my anxiety-ridden nightmare of a daydream.

  “I think you cut out,” I lie, wincing. “Can you say it all again? I got the part where you said you wanted to meet with her in person, but not the rest.”

  He blows a breath into his receiver, pausing. “I said Tatum is pregnant.”

  My legs turn numb and I lean against the nearest wall before they give out completely.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asks.

  “Y—yeah,” I stammer. “I heard.”

  “Wow.” My lip trembles. Even with all the barriers I’d put up around my heart these last two days, the tiniest crack remained. When he left on Sunday, he told me I had him all wrong. He said he was going to prove that when he came back. A miniscule, feather-sized piece of me wanted to believe him.

  Now it doesn’t matter what he said, if he was genuine or not. He’s having a baby with a woman he was once going to marry. He’s not going to walk away from that to woo someone he’s only known three weeks.

  I have my naïve moments, but I’m not an idiot.

  “Congratulations,” I force a smile into my tone despite the throbbing ache in my chest. “That’s great news, Fabian. You’re going to be an amazing father. And hey, you’ll get to experience all the firsts now.”

  “This isn’t going to change anything between us,” he says. “And it doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

  I swipe a thick tear from the corner of my eye. “Of course it does.”

  “I want to be with you.”

  “But you’re having a baby with someone else,” I say.

  “It complicates things,” he says. “But it doesn’t make them impossible. We can figure this out.”

  “You’re not being realistic. You have a life in California. You’re jet setting all over the world for tournaments and photo shoots and appearances and interviews. And then you want to date some random woman you barely know in Illinois while also being there for your ex as she carries your baby?” I scoff. “That’s a little ambitious, don’t you think? Even for you.”

  “First of all, you’re not some random woman in Illinois. And secondly, it’s extremely ambitious. But I’ve never been someone to walk away from something because it seemed too hard,” he says. “So you can push me away if you want, Rossi, but it’s not going to change how I feel about you.”

  Once again, he says all the perfect things.

  And once again, a glass-shard-sized piece of my shattered heart wants to believe him.

  “I have to go in now,” he says. “They’re waiting on me. Just … think about what I said. And maybe stay off social med
ia for the next few days. We’ll talk more when I get back.”

  I scrape myself off the wall, toss my phone on my desk, and shut my laptop lid.

  I could barely concentrate today as it was—now the rest of the day is shot.

  Shuffling to the kitchen, I pull up a seat at the table where Carina and Lucia are eating lunch, and I stare at my beautiful daughter, reminding myself she’s all I ever wanted and all I’ll ever need.

  “What’s wrong? You look sad.” Carina says. “Like sadder than this morning. And you looked pretty freaking miserable then.”

  “Fabian’s ex is pregnant,” I say, monotone.

  Carina drops her spoon into her cereal bowl. It lands with a splash, splattering milk over the sides. “Um, excuse me, what?”

  “He just called,” I say. I hadn’t filled her in on the text thing yet, mostly because I didn’t feel like rehashing it since I’d already re-lived it a million times in my mind. “Apparently she’d been harassing him since she found out he was here with someone else. He claims he went back home to take care of a few things and decided to have a face-to-face talk with her while he was there to get her to back off.” I pick at a hangnail until it bleeds. “Which is when she informed him she’s pregnant with his child.”

  Carina claps a hand over her open mouth. “No.”

  “Yep.”

  “So what’s he going to do?”

  I pick at a loose thread on a nearby placemat. “He says we’ll talk about it when he gets back. But I don’t know what there is to talk about. That’s his ex. I’m basically a stranger. He doesn’t owe it to us to stick around. He should be there with them. That’s where his life is anyway.”

  “Is that what you’re telling yourself so you don’t get hurt?” Carina asks.

  I don’t tell her we’re way past that.

  “Just trying to be rational about it.” I rise and push the chair in. “Going to go for a walk, try to clear my head.”

  A minute later, my sneakers are laced up and my ear buds are playing Funky Town, which normally puts me into a good mood, but for some reason today the song grates under my skin. I tap the right bud to shuffle to a new song and within seconds Ann Wilson is crooning in my ear, a depressing eighties ballad about a woman who has a one-night stand with a handsome stranger for the sole purpose of having a baby.

  Next …

  By the time I get to the sidewalk between my house and Dan’s, I settle on Prince’s Little Red Corvette.

  “Hey!” Dan waves the instant he spots me, bending to place his giant soapy sponge into the five gallon bucket by his trunk. I swear he’s been washing his car for an hour now, but it doesn’t surprise me because meticulous is the man’s middle name.

  I pause my music and trot toward him.

  “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” he says. “I thought maybe you were upset with me about the other night.”

  “No, sorry.” I’d almost forgotten about that fiasco. “Just been really busy.”

  Sliding his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on his heels. “You mind some company on your walk? Such a gorgeous day—I’ll use any excuse I can to stay outside.”

  “Sure.”

  We hit the pavement, taking our usual route down Berkshire Street, then north on 17th, around the cul-de-sac on Preston Circle …

  “Haven’t seen your friend around the last couple days,” Dan says after killing the first few minutes of our walk with mundane small talk.

  “He’s back in California, taking care of a few things,” I say as we turn back toward our street.

  “You don’t sound too thrilled …”

  From the corner of my eye, I feel the weight of his stare.

  “Trouble in paradise?” he asks as we cross at a four-way stop.

  “Can trouble even be in paradise when there never was a paradise to begin with?”

  He chuckles. “You’re a terrible liar, Rossi. You two couldn’t keep your hands off each other at dinner last week. I saw all the looks and the nudges and the way you two looked at each other. Reminded me of teenage love or something. And you two thought you were being sly … that’s the funniest part.”

  “There’s definitely some attraction between us,” I say.

  “Clearly. Because neither of you are blind.”

  “But I think we got ahead of ourselves for a while,” I continue. “And I’m not looking for a boyfriend or any kind of commitment at the moment. I had to give him the just friends spiel the other day.”

  “Not going to lie. Feels good knowing a famous, handsome multi-millionaire got the same line I did,” he teases, nudging my arm.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “So you know I had Lucia with an anonymous sperm donor, right?”

  He nods, brows knitting.

  “Actually, never mind.” I was going to ask him a “hypothetical” question about sperm donors and fatherhood and boundaries and all of that because I’m curious as to what a man in that position might deem fair or appropriate, but Dan’s not an idiot. He’ll easily piece it together. Not to mention, Lucia already suspiciously resembles Fabian.

  “Were you thinking of having another baby?” he asks. “Are you looking for another donor?”

  “Um …” I start to answer before realizing my only option here is to tell a little white lie—not that I’m proud of it, but at least it won’t hurt him. “Yeah, maybe. But the original sperm donor I used is no longer available. I was just thinking out loud, I guess. You know how random I can be sometimes …”

  I try to pass it off with a chuckle, making a crazy face at him as I stick my tongue out.

  “I mean … if you need someone …” He lifts his hands and lets them fall against his sides. “I don’t know how I’d feel about simply being a donor, per se. But I’d be open to figuring something out.”

  Oh, god.

  That’s not where I wanted to go with this.

  “Appreciate the offer, Dan. I think I’m probably an only-child kind of mom,” I say. “Don’t want to bite off more than I can chew.”

  We’re halfway down our street when Dan’s pace slows, as if he’s stalling the inevitable.

  “Oh, hey.” He points to his house. “I just had some new living room furniture delivered yesterday, but I can’t quite nail down the best arrangement. If you have a couple minutes to spare, I’d love to pick your brain.”

  I eye my house.

  While I should be holed off in my office the rest of the afternoon trying to salvage the time I’ve lost today, I’m also far from the right headspace.

  “Sure. I can spare a few minutes.”

  I follow him up to his driveway, where he punches in a code that gets us in, and then we head through his kitchen, past his dining room, and into his formal living room.

  “Why’d you get rid of the old stuff?” I ask. “Wasn’t it pretty new?”

  “I got it in the divorce settlement. Wanted something that was all mine,” he says. “Anyway. I tried putting the sofa here, but I feel like it blocks the window. And when I put the armchairs along that wall, it sort of divides the room in half.”

  “For a numbers guy, I’m shocked you didn’t measure all of this out ahead of time …”

  He laughs. “You and me both. Guess it was an impulse buy. Got a hell of a deal on this set.”

  Walking around the room, I visualize a handful of other configurations, but the L-shape of the space really limits us.

  “I’d put your sofa there,” I point. “Then the two chairs to the left and the love seat to the right. Sort of like a U-shape right in front of the fireplace. If you get a rug, it’ll ground the space and tie it all together. And I’d get a different coffee table. The one you have is very mid-century modern, but your new stuff is very traditional.”

  Pinching his upper lip between two fingers, he squints at the space, likely picturing the new layout.

  “I can help you move these around really quick if you want?” I offer.
>
  Five minutes later, we’re only slightly winded, but his living room looks five times bigger and ten times more functional.

  “Maybe you can help me pick out a coffee table this weekend?” he asks, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with two bottled waters.

  “Fabian’s coming back on Wednesday …”

  “Ah.” He takes a swig. “I see.”

  “I can look online later and see if I can’t find something you can just order,” I offer.

  “Well, that takes half the fun out of it … was looking forward to strangers complimenting us on our cute baby at the mall,” he winks, though I know he’s serious. It never fails, we always get approached any time the three of us are together and Dan always gets a kick out of playing along. “We still on for Wednesday night?”

  “Oh, um …” After last week’s dinner, I don’t think it’s wise to put Dan and Fabian in the same room again.

  It’d be like putting two male betta fish in the same tank.

  “I think we should put a hold on those for the next couple of weeks,” I say.

  His lower lip juts forward into a makeshift pout as his eyes rest unfocused on the fireplace mantel. “I understand.”

  “I should head back.” I point in the general direction of my house. “Good walk and talk though. Thanks for the company.”

  Rising on my toes, I give him a hug—the way I always do when we part ways.

  Only to have him kiss me.

  It happened so fast, I thought it was an accident at first.

  And it was over before I had a chance to process it.

  “What was that?” I ask, laughing to lighten the awkwardness.

  “Sorry, for some reason I thought you were going in for a kiss?” His cheeks turn a deep and undeniable shade of beet red. “I’m so sorry, Rossi …”