The Match: A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

by Renshaw, Winter

  My face tightens. “Yeah, but they shouldn’t have abandoned you just because they got a second chance.”

  “What are we going to do about it now, huh?” She shrugs, flashing a crooked, bittersweet smile. “They’re six feet under, and it’s not like we can undo three decades’ worth of damage. Regardless, I think you turned out okay, don’t you think?”

  I drag my hand along my jaw, shaking my head.

  It still isn’t right.

  And while I’ll forever love my parents and be grateful for everything they did for me, it’s going to be a while before I can forgive them for taking this secret to the grave.

  “You had a good life, kid,” she says. “I think I made the right call, leaving you with them and staying out of the way.”

  We sit in silence, the TV flickering, soundless on the other side of the room.

  Mom was forty-four when I was born, which was why she said I was such a surprise. They weren’t “expecting” me—which makes sense now because Frankie was the one doing the “expecting.” They’d always told me I was an unplanned surprise. Guess they weren’t lying.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that,” I say.

  “And I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” Standing, her knees pop and she takes the last swig from her soda can. “You okay?”

  “I will be. I just need time to digest all of this.”

  She chuffs. “I’m sure you do. Anyway, I’d love to hang out and catch up a little more, but my new boss is a dick and if I’m late one more time—”

  I rise. “No, it’s fine. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue this conversation sometime?”

  A million questions linger unspoken—the identity of my biological father, for starters.

  She studies me. “Yeah, all right. Sure.”

  Sliding my phone out, I create a new contact for her. “What’s the best way to reach you?”

  She rattles off ten digits. “I don’t have texting though.”

  “Noted.” I walk to the door, turning back to add, “You don’t have to stay away anymore, Frankie. I want you to know that.”

  “Not sure what I could add to your life at this point, kid.”

  I stare into the strange-yet-familiar eyes of a woman who was conditioned to believe her own son would be better off without her.

  But it ends today.

  With me.

  “You’re family, Frankie,” I say, still attempting to comprehend that the woman standing before me is the very woman who brought me into this world. For that reason alone, she’ll never have to want for anything for the rest of her days. If she needs any kind of help at all—I won’t hesitate to arrange it. But one thing at a time. “Let’s make this right. Let’s fix this.”

  She swipes her apron off the chair and ties it around her narrow waist before grabbing a rattan purse off the counter and a set of keys dangling with a car dealership worth of keychains.

  Walking out together, she locks up behind us.

  “I’d give you a hug or something, but I’m not a touchy-feely person,” she says as she shuffles across the grass to her Grand Am.

  “Same,” I sniff. “I’ll call you.”

  Unlocking her car, she gives me a casual wave. I take it she’s not one for emotions or sentiment. Maybe it’s a Catalano thing. For the most part, we’re doers not feelers. A second later, her engine hums to life, muffler coughing as she backs out of the gravel drive and heads west.

  On my drive back to Rossi’s, I think of my daughter. I think of her twenty years from now. Thirty. Fifty. Anonymous donor or not, I’m a part of her. And the idea of Lucia growing up without knowing everything weighs heavy on my mind.

  As her mother, Rossi gets to choose what Lucia knows and when she knows it. But as her biological father, I need to make it unquestionably clear that I want to know my daughter and be there for her in every moment of this rollercoaster we call life.

  I don’t want Lucia to wake up on her 52nd birthday and wonder if her life could’ve been different if only a piece of it wasn’t missing.

  I’ve spent the last week falling hard for Lucia’s mother, but not once have we sat down to figure out my role in Lucia’s life going forward.

  For the next two hours, I replay my last exchange with Rossi, the cruel accusations I hurled at her without giving her a moment to explain. The hatred in my voice. The arrogance in my stance. The clench in my jaw. She was adamant that she didn’t do it. And while I wanted to believe her, I was so worked up, I couldn’t fucking see straight let alone think straight.

  I lost my cool.

  I hope I didn’t lose her too.

  Chapter 33

  Rossi

  * * *

  I switch off Lucia’s lamp and place her in her crib when two headlights flash across my driveway. For hours, I tried calling Fabian to tell him about Dan, only his phone went to voicemail every time. For a moment, I wondered if he’d blocked me. And by the end of the night, I was convinced he’d written me off completely, which only made me stew over this entire thing even more.

  All night as I cared for my daughter, I went through the motions, forced smiles and did my best “mom voice,” but our little exchange was running circles through my head. And not only that, but I kept tapping out furious texts to Dan—only to delete them before they could be sent.

  Carina was right—Fabian needs to deal with this.

  He has the means and the connections.

  And I need to maintain a safe distance from Dan … just in case.

  I meet Fabian at the door a minute later, swinging it open before he has a chance to knock.

  “Look who came back.” I lean against the jamb, arms folded. “Been trying to call you all night.”

  “I turned my phone off … went to see Frankie.”

  I lift a brow, despite the fact that I’m beyond upset with him right now, I’m a sucker for a long-lost family reunion story. “How’d it go?”

  “You mind if I come in so we can talk?” he asks.

  Stepping back, I nod. “I just put Lucia down, so as long as you refrain from raising your voice at me this time …”

  His shoulders sag and he exhales, eyes softening. “I’m sorry, Rossi. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

  “No,” I say. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I got that call this morning, and I just … I blacked out. I saw red. I went for the jugular,” he says. “I don’t give a damn what the press writes about me. I’m used to that shit. But Lucia’s privacy and safety is paramount. That’s why I was so upset. And I’m still upset, but I’ve had some time to calm down, to think about our next step, and—”

  “—it was Dan,” I interrupt.

  His dark brows come together. “The neighbor?”

  I nod.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not one hundred percent,” I say. “Carina wouldn’t let me confront him in case he does something crazy, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

  “I knew that guy was a fucking creep.” Fabian shakes his head, fingers digging into his hips. “How’d he do it?”

  “He came over last night when I was cleaning Lucia up after dinner … I ran off to give her a bath and left my phone on the counter. It was unlocked. I was gone for maybe ten minutes,” I say. “I’m assuming he Air Dropped the photos to his phone. I don’t have proof, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. And he’s the only one who’d have a good reason to do this.”

  “I thought he was your friend? Why would he jeopardize that?”

  Biting my lip, my gaze flicks to his pristine loafers. “He’s very jealous of you—of your new place in my life, I guess you could say. And the other day, he kissed me.”

  Fabian’s jaw sets, his hands ball into white-knuckled fists, and the same livid flicker that colored his eyes earlier today returns.

  “I’m going to fucking murder him.” Fabian turns to reach for the doorknob, but I hook my hand into his elbow and steer him back.<
br />
  “Stop,” I say.

  “I told you he was a creep, did I not?” Hard breaths flare his nostrils.

  I lift a hand to his angled jaw and trace my fingertips down the side of his face, and with a soothing, motherly tone, I say, “Calm down, okay? Getting worked up isn’t going to fix this. And you’re not going away for murder. You’re too pretty for prison.”

  I manage to crack a smile out of him, but it fades just the same. “So what do you propose we do?”

  “Confronting him isn’t going to do much. He’ll just deny it. And the police aren’t going to do anything. They’ll say it’s a matter for the courts. We’re going to need a court order to stop this.”

  Within seconds, Fabian is speed-dialing someone named Phoebe, and then he disappears into my office to make another call. Ten minutes later, he steps out, one hand hooked on the back of his neck as he blows a breath through his full lips.

  “They’re on it,” he says. “But it doesn’t make me want to kill the fucker any less.”

  “Will they be able to stop this from going through?”

  He winces. “That’s the plan, but no guarantees. They’ll call with any updates.”

  We remain in my foyer. Other than the phone call in my office, I haven’t technically invited him beyond this point. And I don’t intend to.

  “I can’t stop thinking about earlier.” He studies my face. “I wish I could take it back, the way I spoke to you.”

  “You apologized. It’s over.” I shrug.

  He leans in, cupping my face. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I’ll never doubt you again.”

  I brush his hand aside. “You should probably go to your hotel—or wherever you’re staying tonight.”

  Squinting, he chuffs. “Really? So that’s what it’s come to? Rossi, I made a mistake and I’m owning it. It doesn’t mean we should throw in the towel.”

  “It’s not about that,” I say. “I mean, it is. That’s part of it. But you’re having a baby, Fabian. With a woman you were going to marry. That’s big. You should be there—with her. Having a baby is a beautiful thing and it’s always worth it in the end, but believe me when I tell you, it sucks to do it alone. She’s going to need you.”

  “I’ll be there for her, and for the child—but I want to be with you,” he says. “Tatum and I—we’re over. There’s no future for us. But you, Rossi? And Lucia?”

  “You’ve known us, what? Three weeks?”

  “Long enough.” He dips his chin, gathering his thoughts. “I want to be a part of Lucia’s life. I want her to know me, and I want to be there for her. And I want to get to know you, all of you.”

  Stepping closer, he hooks his hands around my waist and pulls me in.

  “You’re welcome to be in Lucia’s life,” I say. “But I think it’s best that we keep things platonic between us.”

  He exhales, his breath hot on the top of my head. “What are you so afraid of?”

  Everything …

  The way he makes me feel when we’re together, like everything is glimmering and new, strange and familiar, impeccably suited for each other. Fabian and I are like that optical illusion where two shapes, when separate, look different, but when you place them over top of one another, they line up perfectly.

  But mostly I’m scared of the way he makes me feel when we’re apart … like half of my heart is empty and hollow and I’m permanently holding my breath.

  That’s no way to live.

  “You promised me things would be casual if I let you stay here,” I say. “And maybe I’m just as guilty as you for getting caught up, but this is where it ends. I’ve got a child to raise and you’ve got a mountain of responsibility waiting for you two thousand miles away.”

  “I knew from the first time we kissed things were never going to be casual between us,” he says. “And watching you with Lucia, my daughter, spending time with the two of you in this home you’ve created—it put a lot of things into perspective for me. Made me realize I had my priorities all wrong.”

  “Fabian …” My voice trails into nothing. Half of me hurts for him. The other half of me aches for myself and the whirlwind rollercoaster of the past several days. The text message. The pregnancy bombshell. The accusations. “I love my simple life. I don’t want to give up what I’ve worked so hard for because some gorgeous, rich guy—who happens to be my daughter’s sperm donor—has stars in his eyes every time he looks at me. I don’t want to be just another name on a list. And I don’t want to worry about what you’re up to every time you fly home. You should’ve told me you were seeing your ex before, not after.”

  His lips flatten. “I’m terrible at communication. The worst. But I’ll work on that … for you. We’ll get it right. And in the meantime, it may not be perfect, but we’ll get there.”

  Once again, he says all the perfect things at just the right moments.

  “Rossi, please.” He presses his lips against mine, his fingers laced in the hair at the back of my neck. “I don’t want to leave here and always wonder if we could’ve been something more.” He swallows, releasing his tender hold on me. “I’m falling for you.”

  Tears sting my vision in the dark foyer, but I blink them away before he notices.

  “Don’t make this harder than it already is.” I step back, keeping my attention trained on the rug by the door because if I lose myself in his capturing gaze one more time, I might lose my nerve and change my mind.

  It’d be so easy to get caught up with him again.

  But it’d also be reckless.

  I have a child to support, a business to run, a family who needs me, and a heart that can only break so many times before it shatters completely.

  He might be the athlete, but I have more skin in this game.

  Chapter 34

  Fabian

  * * *

  I punch the steering wheel of my rental SUV, staring at the front of Rossi’s garage.

  Meeting her was like finding something I never knew was lost. It was like drawing a line and forgetting everything that ever existed before her.

  Before them.

  I can’t go back.

  Not now.

  For thirty-seven years, I’ve been addicted to the thrill of the next big thing. The attentions. The glory. The accolades. I’ve spent so much time building myself into a household name, a fucking empire.

  And for what?

  So I can go home to my empty mansion, to an empty bed, staring at a lifeless ceiling in a house so quiet you can hear a pin drop?

  I think of Rossi inside, warm in her bed, the way her dark hair splays across her silk pillowcase when she sleeps. The way her lips would twist into a bashful half-smile in the mornings. The sound of Lucia’s giggles. The sweet scent of the fabric softener Rossi used on Lucia’s blankets. Hell, even the taste of Gerber apricots.

  I didn’t sign up for this, but good God, I’ve never wanted anything more than I want this.

  I’ll trade the Maybach for lazy Sundays, the mansion in Malibu for cartoons and pancakes, and every last tournament trophy for stuffed bunnies and jogging strollers if it means forever with these two.

  I need this brown-eyed baby girl who looks at me like I hung the moon—and the baby mama who checks me out when she thinks I’m not watching and has never been afraid to put me in my place.

  I didn’t sign up for this, but give me a contract and I’ll sign the rest of my life to them.

  My perfect little family.

  Rossi’s porch light goes dark, but I’m not leaving. I’ll sleep here all night if I have to. I can promise that woman the world, but at the end of the day, words are just words. She needs to see I’m not going anywhere. And when she wakes tomorrow morning, she’ll see just that.

  My phone buzzes from the cupholder, sending a start to my chest.

  “Phoebe,” I answer.

  “Good news,” she says. “Radar Online bought the photos—however, I have an in over there and I was able to make a phone call and explai
n the situation and the impending legal entanglements they’ll face if they publish, and they were willing to call off the hounds.”

  Exhaling, I say, “Thank god.”

  “They did, however, make a small request,” she says.

  “Which is?”

  “They want an exclusive statement from you regarding Tatum Cartwright’s pregnancy announcement.”

  “Of-fucking-course they do.”

  “Honestly, it’s the lesser of two evils in my opinion,” Phoebe says. “I’ll work on putting a few options together and we can go over them in the morning. Anyway, you can breathe a little easier tonight.”

  I stare up at Rossi’s dark house. “Yeah. Guess so.”

  We end the call, and I recline back in my seat, glaring at Dan’s house in all its well-lit glory. The thing is practically a beacon in the night, a siren song calling me over to give the bastard a piece of my mind. And if he’s lucky, that’s all I’ll give him.

  Cracking my knuckles, I glance at the steering wheel, then to the neighbor’s house and back.

  I shouldn’t do this …

  But he fucked with the wrong family.

  Climbing out, I march next door, punch the doorbell six or seven times, and wait for the sorry asshat to meet his fate.

  A second later, the door swings open—slow and careful. But before the plaid pajama-wearing coward has a chance to process my presence, I gift him with a sucker punch to the gut, and when he’s hobbled in half, I throw in a knee to the face because I’m nothing if not generous.

  A stifled, animalistic grunt escapes his thin mouth as he falls to his stoop with a sickening thud, writhing as he curls into a ball. His knees are tucked against his chest, a protective stance. Not that it could possibly save him from anything else I might see fit to do to this ass hat.