I’d have to fly my assistant out for a month. Coach too. We’d have to arrange access to a private tennis court for practices, which I doubt would be an issue given this is one of the largest metropolitan areas in the country. It’d take a bit of finessing, but I could make it work.
“Thoughts?” she asks with a slight laugh. “I know it sounds crazy, but we could condense a lot of getting-to-know-you into a short amount of time.”
“It’s a brilliant idea,” I say.
She tries to respond, but chokes on her words instead. Perhaps my enthusiasm caught her off guard.
“That’s … that’s great,” she finally says. “So, um, I guess when you’re done with your match or whatever in Atlanta, you can just plan on staying here for a month? I’ll set up the guest room for you, and we can just keep things casual and cordial and …”
Her voice trails.
“Sorry,” she continues. “I don’t know why I added the casual and cordial part.”
Yes, she does.
She’s just as attracted to me as I am to her—she just won’t let herself admit it
“Looking forward to this little … arrangement,” I say. “I’ll fly in next Friday and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, you have my number if you need anything.”
I check my back pocket, ensuring my wallet is in the proper place, and then I head to the door. Rossi follows, her bare feet padding against the wood floor as she cinches her robe. In the small confines of her foyer, I can’t help but notice the way the top of her head would fit perfectly beneath my chin or the way her subtle lavender scent invades my lungs.
Casual and cordial? I’ll try my fucking best.
Chapter 9
Rossi
* * *
“So? How’d it go?” Carina shrugs out of her khaki jacket the next morning and hangs it on the back of a kitchen chair.
I lift a spoonful of oatmeal to Lucia’s lips. “He came over twice last night …”
Squinting, she asks, “Wait, what?”
“He forgot his wallet and had to come back.”
“Forgot his wallet,” Carina speaks slowly, using air quotes.
“No, I think it was legit.”
“Whatever. So the second time, did he just grab his wallet and leave?”
I fill another spoonful with mushy oats. “No. He stayed for a glass of wine and we talked. A lot.”
Her dark brows lift sky high. “Mm hm. And what did you two talk about?”
My cheeks warm, but I angle my face so she can’t see. All night I played our conversation in my head, again and again, until I was convinced I didn’t actually hallucinate any of it.
“So … he told me I was beautiful,” I blurt the words. “And he wants to be a part of Lucia’s life—but he doesn’t want custody.”
“Holy shit.” Carina collapses into a nearby chair with a plunk. “He was hitting on you.”
“It wasn’t like that. He’s very … honest. Like no filter. He just says whatever he’s thinking and he doesn’t mince words. And weirdly enough, I found myself doing the same thing,” I say. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around a guy and didn’t self-edit every word coming out of my mouth before I said it. “It was nice, actually.”
“Okay, let’s walk it back.” She spins her finger like she’s rewinding an old cassette tape. “To the part where he called you beautiful.”
I stifle a laugh and roll my eyes. “He wasn’t hitting on me. It wasn’t like that. It’s hard to explain.”
She rests her chin on her hand. “Yeah, okay, sure. Whatever you say.”
“I need to get started for the day.” I rise and hand her the spoon and oatmeal. “And you’re officially on the clock, sister.”
She takes the bowl, rising. “So that’s it? He came over and drank wine with you and told you you were beautiful and then he left? End of story?”
I fight the tug that pulls at the corner of my mouth. “I may have invited him to live with me.”
“What?!”
“Just for a few weeks. A temporary, getting-to-know-you kind of thing,” I say. “Very casual and cordial. We’re not playing house, we’re just spending time together. All three of us. If he wants to be a part of Lucia’s life, I need to know him better.”
“So he’s going to completely upend his life, leave his fifteen thousand square foot Malibu mansion … and move in here?”
I nod. “Yup.”
“Rossi …”
“What?”
“That is in—sane.”
“This whole thing is insane.” I grab my phone off the charger, kiss my daughter’s chubby cheeks, and trek toward my office in the front of the house.
“When’s he moving in?” she calls.
“Next Friday.” Disappearing into my work zone, I close the door, slide in my ear buds, and pull up some study music so I can focus on today’s work. This weekend, I’ll make a list of all the things I need to do to prepare for his stay—fresh linens on the queen-sized guest bed. Maybe stock up on some of the foods he likes? Plan a few activities the three of us can do that won’t draw a crowd.