“And what would you like to see come from this?” Her father asks. “Do you want to be a father or do you want to remain an anonymous fixture in our granddaughter’s life?”
“Don’t mind my father, he tends to go straight for the jugular,” Carina says.
“Dad.” Rossi clears her throat. “Fabian and I are still figuring things out. Can we save the hardball questions for another time?”
“That’s an excellent idea, Rossi.” Her mother slides her hand into her father’s elbow and leads him back to the table. “We were just out running errands and wanted to stop by for a quick visit and to see our little doll baby.” Shuffling to the other side of the table, she takes Lucia from Carina, smothering her chubby cheeks with kisses, leaving smudges of red lipstick. “Though I will say, Rossi, I thought it was strange we hadn’t heard from you in the past week …”
“As you can see, things have been a little crazy …” Rossi says. “Was waiting for a good time to share all of this with you, but anyway.”
“You’re hogging her, Suze.” Mr. Bianco reaches toward Lucia, who reaches back at him with a drooly grin the size of Neptune. “There’s my favorite baby girl.”
“Hey,” Carina says.
“Oh, stop.” Suze paws at the air, chuckling. “You’re all his favorite.”
“Your mom made some of those Madeleines,” Mr. Bianco points to a white plate wrapped in clear plastic. “I told her she’s got to stop making those. I’m supposed to be on a keto diet or whatever.”
“His A1C is up.” Suze rolls her eyes.
“They told me I’m supposed to eat seventy-five percent fats or something,” Mr. Bianco says, “But I can’t eat cake or ice cream. How the hell does a guy do that?”
“Fabian’s actually really good with nutrition,” Rossi nudges my arm. “I bet he could put together some lists for you?”
Her father’s bushy gray-black brows knit. “You think you could do that?”
“I’m certainly no nutritionist, but I know a thing or two about macros.”
“See, what the hell is a macro? They gave me all these pamphlets at the doctor’s office, but it’s like reading Latin.”
Chuckling, I nod, “I’d be happy to break it down for you sometime, sir.”
“Sir.” He points across the table. “I like that. You hear that, Suze? Biggest athlete in the world and he calls me ‘sir.’”
Suze glances up from playing with Lucia and offers a warm, sweet smile.
Rossi’s dad checks his watch before tossing his hands in the air. “Just got a text from our accountant. Wants to know if we can meet a half hour earlier to sign our taxes, otherwise we’ll have to reschedule for next week.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Suze says with a pout as Lucia tugs on her necklace. “I was looking forward to getting to know a little more about Rossi’s new friend.”
New friend.
That’s one way to put it.
I fight a smirk.
“I need to get back to work anyway,” Rossi says. “And Fabian probably has some phone calls to make …”
Carina takes the baby and Mr. Bianco helps his wife up, not that she needs it. But he strikes me as the old-fashioned type. Reminds me a lot of my father, actually.
“I’ll walk you out.” Rossi disappears with her parents outside for a few minutes, and when she returns, I catch her by the office.
“Everything good?”
“Yeah …” She squints. “They kind of … really like you.”
“And you’re surprised?”
“No. I mean, yeah. It’s a lot for them to take in at one time. And you couldn’t tell, but I know my dad was freaking out on the inside. He’s not an avid tennis fan, but he knows who you are in a way that non-golfers know who Tiger Woods is. I bet he low-key wanted to fangirl a bit.”
“Really? Because he came with those questions like …”
She laughs through her nose. “He was trying to play it cool, and I think he overcompensated by being ice cold.”
Pulling her against me, I kiss her smiling face. “Oh, yeah? Is that was he was doing?”
“Seriously though, they think you’re pretty great. And they think what you’re doing is great,” she says. “Even though I don’t think you even know what you’re doing …”
“Psh.” I scoff. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Falling for my baby mama …”
Chapter 21
Rossi
* * *
“What are you thinking about right now?” Fabian asks late Thursday night. We’re snuggled under a blanket on the couch, watching some newly released documentary on some basketball player he knows and I’m trying to pay attention out of politeness, but sports have never held my attention before. Doubt they’re magically going to start now.
“I’m thinking that my dad is probably sitting in his leather recliner—his thinking chair, as he calls it—staring at the fireplace and analyzing everything from earlier today,” I say, fighting a laugh. “And my mom is probably nagging at him to come to bed because she can never sleep alone. She says the bed gets too cold, but who knows. While she waits for him, she’ll probably put on an extra layer of Oil of Olay and mentally go over all the questions she’s going to ask me the next time we’re alone.”