One night down, twenty-seven to go.
There’s a chance this arrangement might prove to be harder than I expected—in ways I couldn’t possibly have anticipated.
Chapter 14
Fabian
* * *
I swipe the fog on the mirror in the hall bath Saturday, muscles tight from this morning’s practice. Today marks a lot of firsts for me—playing on some local real estate billionaire’s private court on no sleep being one of them. Second being the shower I just used—the one with shelves lined with yellow baby shampoo and matching rubber ducks.
Securing a thin bath sheet around my hips, I finger comb my hair into place before heading across the hall to grab my clothes. Only the instant I step into the hall—is the same instant Rossi happens to be passing by.
We collide.
My towel slips—though I manage to catch it … mostly.
I capture her gaze, holding it, testing it, while I secure my towel again. Tighter this time.
“I’m so sorry.” Rossi backs into the wall, pointing to Lucia’s door. “I was just coming to grab a diaper.”
Placing a hand on her shoulder, I wink. “All good. You sleep okay last night?”
She nods, keeping her attention laser focused. “I did. You?”
Wincing, I say, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m having a new mattress delivered this afternoon. Same one I use back home.”
Quality sleep has always been a non-negotiable for me. My performance is shit without it. Same with nutrition. And last night was rough. But talking to Rossi in the middle of the night made it slightly less of an inconvenience.
My ex-fiancée used to try to wake me up in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep. And she’d always ask me the kind of questions that required more brain power than I could muster at 2 AM, like, “If you could save any endangered animal, which would it be?” or “If you could have dinner with anyone—dead or alive—who would you choose and what would you ask them?”
She never understood my annoyance—or the inconvenience.
I’d usually roll over, fall back asleep, and wake up alone with no covers.
Rossi, on the other hand, offered to trade beds last night.
“Oh?” Rossi’s brows rise.
“You can keep it after I leave. It’s a Duxiana,” I say. “It’ll just make things easier for me these next few weeks. I’m a bear if I don’t get my sleep.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she says, injecting a smile in her tone. “Speaking of this afternoon, I was going to see if you wanted to do a picnic? There’s a little state park not far from here. They’ve got a trail and a pond and lots of green space. Trees are starting to fill in and it’s going to be in the seventies today—maybe that’s cold to you back in LA, but out here it’s practically pool weather. Once it hits the forties, it’s not unusual to see crazy people walking around in shorts and flipflops.”
“I was one of those crazy people once upon a time,” I say.
“That’s right—I keep forgetting you grew up in the Midwest.” Her eyes drop to my chest for a flicker of a second. “Anyway. Picnic? Yea or nay?”
Can’t remember the last time I went on a picnic. Probably right around the last time I was running around a playground.
“Let’s do it.”
We park in the back row of a gravel lot just past the sign for Potter State Park. With impressive efficiency, Rossi climbs out, straps the baby to a carrier on her chest, and I meet her by the trunk to grab the basket and blanket.
Following a dirt path, we find a quiet clearing in the middle of an oaky section of woods and set up camp.
“Okay, are these not the cutest things you’ve ever seen in your life?” Retrieving a pair of baby-sized sunglasses from her jacket pocket, Rossi slips them over Lucia’s face.
I don’t melt, but if I did, I’d be a fucking puddle right now.
Lucia giggles, stretching her hands toward the sky and examining them with her new, tinted vision.
“That’s … wow.” I’m at a loss for words because “adorable” and “precious” aren’t exactly in my day-to-day vernacular.
“You should see her baby Converse,” she adds. “They’re a couple of sizes too big right now, but I’m hoping by the time she starts walking …”
“Baby Converse? I didn’t know they made such a thing.”
Rossi digs into the picnic basket, producing a meticulously arranged tray of artisan crackers, sliced cheeses, green olives, a small bowl of cut fruit, two jars of baby food, a bottle, some white wine, and two goblets.
“I feel like I’m forgetting something …” She examines the spread, her expression pinched.
“You’re forgetting to relax.” Before I can say another word, my phone rings. Without checking the Caller ID, I silence it.
“If you need to get that, it’s fine.” Rossi points before popping a red grape in her mouth. It fills the side of her cheek as she chews, but all I can focus on are those rosy lips and how sweet they probably taste. Unscrewing the cap on a jar of pureed prunes, she props Lucia on her lap and loads a tiny scoop onto a rubber spoon.