“Okay … so why are you calling?”
She clears her throat a second time. “We’ve had a little … clerical mishap.”
“And what the hell does that mean?”
“The letter that was intended to you,” she says, “was actually sent to a recipient of your donation.”
I take a seat in a leather armchair, massaging my temple. “And what did this letter say? Exactly?”
“Well, it had your name on it.” She chuckles even though nothing about this is funny. “As well as your donor ID number. It was just a confirmation that we had fulfilled your request.”
“So you’re saying that because of a careless mistake your clinic made, there’s a woman out there who now knows that I’m the biological father of her child?”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying, Mr. Catalano.” The sweetness in her tone is gone. Now it’s all business. “I want you to know that Dr. Wickham and I, we understand the gravity of this breach of information, and we’re prepared to offer you a settlement.”
“Money’s the last thing I need.” I sniff, insulted. “And it sure as hell isn’t going to fix this.”
“Yes, we realize that, but the law states—”
“—the law is nothing more than a liquid guideline,” I interrupt. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I examine my options. I could sue the hell out of that place until they’re forced to shutter their doors, but that would mean putting innocent people out of work. Not to mention, taking this to court would make it public record. Neither of those options are going to undo any of this. It’d be a lose-lose-lose situation.
Rising, I pace the space in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, my coach stands in the middle of my tennis court on a phone call, waiting patiently while I sort out this shit show.
If the recipient of my “donation” realizes who I am—and if she’s got half a brain cell, she will—she could try to extort me in exchange for her silence. And if that doesn’t work (and it won’t), she’ll go to the news. She’ll garner enough publicity to make me look like the villain, not the clinic. I’ll be painted in every light imaginable. “Cancelled” on social media. The kind of jerkoff other guys laugh about in locker rooms.
“I want to meet her,” I say.
“You want to meet … the recipient?” Rhonda asks, over-enunciating.
“Yes.” I check my watch. It’s not quite noon here. I could hop on a flight and be to Chicago in hours—assuming that’s where she lives.
“Oh, I don’t know if that’s possible, Mr. Catalano. You see, if I give you her name, that is a breach of privacy for her and the child as well.”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?”
“I see what you’re saying, but unfortunately it doesn’t work that way,” she says. “Like I was about to say before, Dr. Wickham is prepared to offer you a generous settlement for this … inconvenience. I can give you our attorney’s information if you want to pass it along to yours.”
My skin heats.
Nothing infuriates me more than being brushed off.
“You’re not hearing me,” I raise my voice, though I’m far from shouting. “I don’t want your money. I want to meet my child’s mother.”
“I heard you perfectly, Mr. Catalano, but like I said, legally we aren’t allowed to give you her information.”
“Then call her.” I switch my phone to the opposite ear, head to the kitchen, and grab a bottled water. “Ask if she wants to meet me.”
I don’t know what her situation is, obviously. She could be a single mother or she could be a married mother raising six of my genetically perfect offspring. Either way, all I need is a private meeting where I can speak to this woman, adult to adult. I can explain to her that I’ve no intentions of pursuing custody or being in any kind of fatherhood role, but I’m happy to ensure that the clinic establishes a healthy college fund for any and all children that came from this arrangement. I’ll even insist the clinic throw in a new car and a little something special for her. A family vacation or something. After that, I’ll have her sign an NDA and we’ll both be on our way.
It’ll almost be like it never happened.
“I can try,” Rhonda says. “But I can’t make any promises. And you have to respect her decision.”
“Just make the call.” I hang up, chug my water, and head back to the court, ready to hit some balls.
“Everything okay?” Coach asks.
No—but it will be.
I grab a ball, toss it high, and deliver one of my signature, impossible-to-hit serves.
“Jaysus,” he says, ducking. “Take my head off, why don’t you?”
Smirking, I lob another one at him—this time it’s gentler. “There. Better?”
He returns it with a hard smack—and I fucking miss it.
“See what just happened?” he asks. “You just let someone get inside your head. And you allowed me to manipulate you. Don’t do it again.”
Chapter 3
Rossi
* * *
“Come on, I know you like this …” I lift a spoonful of pureed butternut squash to Lucia’s mouth, but she puckers up, refusing it. And then to make it worse, she grabs the spoon with her chubby little hand and sends the goopy orange substance flying everywhere. In her hair. On the wall. All over me. “Baby girl. You literally ate this last week. Three jars, I might add.”
Rising, I grab a rag by the sink and attempt to clean what I can before it dries and I have to break out the Magic Eraser.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Hawaiian Delight it is. Again. But tomorrow you’re getting peas, sister.”
Heading to the pantry, I pull out a glass jar of her favorite baby food and grab a clean spoon from the drawer on my way back to the high chair. No sooner do I sit down when my phone rings. Ignoring it, I feed my daughter—and she doesn’t miss a drop. When we’re done, I sneak her a couple bites of my Greek yogurt because girlfriend needs some protein in this fruity equation. Lord knows I do too. I’m still holding onto a little bit of pregnancy weight—not that it’s a major concern of mine. This little cherub was worth all the late-night Snickers ice cream runs.
My phone rings again.
“Ugh.” I steal a glance at the Caller ID—only to be met with WICKHAM FERTILITY CLINIC. “Oh.”
Clearing my throat, I press the green button. “Hello?”
“Ms. Bianco?” A woman’s voice asks.
“Speaking.”
“Hi, this is Rhonda Bixby at Dr. Wickham’s office. Do you have a moment?”
Lucia kicks in her high chair. She’s over the confinement, ready to crawl all over the living room and try to stick her fingers in places they don’t belong.
“Um, I have a couple of minutes.” Thinking quick, I grab a baggie of yogurt melts from the cabinet and place a small handful on her tray to keep her occupied. “Is this about the letter I received in the mail earlier?”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Yes. Yes, it is.”