He isn’t wrong.
“Yeah,” I say, fetching the baby carrier off the blanket.
“Good call.” Rossi rises, taking the carrier from my hands before positioning it over my arms, loosening the straps until it fits, then fastening it into place. Next thing I know, she slides the baby into the opening—and I’m officially wearing her.
I’ll just tack this onto my growing lists of firsts …
“You don’t have to hold onto her,” Rossi says, pointing to my hand placement on the carrier—one beneath the baby’s behind and the other over her chest. “She’s not going to fall.”
“You sure?”
She nods. And I let go, taking a few steps until I’m comfortable with the fact that she’s securely strapped to my chest and not going to slip and crack her head.
“It’s sweet how gentle you are with her,” she says. “You’re covered in muscles and one of the most agile, coordinated people in the world, but you always hold her like she’s a Faberge egg. I like it.”
“As opposed to being rough with her?” I tease.
I’ll never forget my first pro tournament, how adrenaline coursed through me and made me hypervigilant of every move I made. In some ways, handling Lucia is no different. I’ve never handled something so fragile, with so many rules.
Packing up our things, we head for the dirt path, the strange little crew that we are, and make our way around the pond. We stop to admire a family of ducks, which elicits a squeal of excitement from Lucia. And Rossi impressively points out various types of trees and shrubs to her daughter. Not that she can understand any of it. Thirty minutes later, we’re back where we started, in the little gravel parking lot, loading everything back into Rossi’s Subaru.
“You did good today,” she says when she slides the baby from the carrier on my chest. I pull the contraption over my head and stick it in the trunk while she buckles Lucia into her car seat. “Not that I doubted you for a minute. I think I’ve figured you out.”
“How so?” I climb into the passenger side.
Rossi gets in beside me, starting the engine. “You’re one of those people who are good at everything.”
“I’ll try not to let that go to my head.” Turning my phone on, I check my voicemail as we pull out of the parking lot. One from Coach. One from my agent. And six from my ex. I delete each one from Tatum, not even bothering to check the transcribed versions because if the past is any indication, they’re all likely gibberish because the automatic dictation can never keep up with her screaming fits.
We’re almost home when my phone dings with a text.
COACH: Sorry. Tatum found out you’re in Chicago with another woman.
My jaw flexes as I tap out a response.
ME: She found out? Or you told her?
COACH: She’s a smart girl. You know that. Asked a million questions and read between the lines.
COACH: I’ll deal with her though. Just ignore.
“Everything okay?” Rossi asks. “You’re breathing kind of heavy over there.”
“Everything’s fine.” I lie. Sort of. Tatum is a spitfire when she wants something, and while we officially ended our engagement months ago—with a press release and joint statement—I know deep down she thought we’d get back together.
I picture her stewing in her West Hollywood penthouse, pacing her expansive walk-in closet and pausing every so often to refresh all of my social media accounts in search of clues.
Sliding my phone out of sight, I lean back into the seat and attempt to forget about the drama for a moment.
“Lucia, it’s our song …” Rossi calls out before dialing the volume up a couple of notches and cracking the window a couple of inches. A second later, some catchy, tinkly vintage pop song plays over the radio, and it takes a moment, but I recognize it as Forever Your Girl by Paula Abdul. Bopping her head and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she sings along—albeit slightly off pitch—as the baby kicks along in the back.
Tatum would’ve never driven anywhere with the windows remotely down. The only time she’d dance was at a club, after half a bottle of 818 Tequila. And she’d never tap her fingers along to the radio. She was too ‘cool’ for that. In fact, she’d be the first to make fun of people who drove around LA singing along to the radio as they sped down the freeway.
I may not know Rossi Bianco—yet—but already she’s a breath of fresh-fucking-air.
And that puts her miles above any other woman I’ve ever met.
Maybe I came here for Lucia … but I might have to stay for her mother.
Chapter 15
Rossi
* * *
“Is she out?” I’m perched in the hall Saturday night after assigning Fabian the task of putting the baby to bed. Our time together is limited. If I’m going to be comfortable letting him into our life in some capacity, I want them to have a bond.