Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I laugh. “Probably.”
Just another reason our worlds could never collide. I’ve got an accounting pining after me and Fabian dates women who look like wildlife.
“I didn’t realize you were such a celebrity gossip buff,” I say.
“Not me. The ex. She lived for that stuff. I’ll never forget the two AM notification she got when Prince Harry announced his engagement to Meghan Markle. Woke me out of a dead sleep. And for what?” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, I’ve never understood why people care about the so-called lifestyles of the rich and famous. These people aren’t real. I mean they are in a physical sense, but the versions we get are curated by the media.”
“This is true.” I dump half a box of pasta into the boiling water and give it a stir.
I peek into the living room and catch a glimpse of the game. Fabian is winning. One more point—or whatever—and he’ll have the match.
“If you ever want to play tennis, my boss has a membership at the LaGrange Country Club,” Dan says. “I could get us on the list for a court.”
Chuckling at the idea, I say, “Don’t think I’ve ever touched a tennis racket in my life.”
“I could teach you.”
It’s a kind offer—but the thought of making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of strangers and hating every second of it holds zero appeal.
Nevertheless, I let him down gently. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
Tending to the shotgun dinner at hand, I finish making our meal and set the table while Dan scoops Lucia into his arms and situates her in the high chair at the end of the table. He’s always like this, one step ahead of me. Almost as if he’s reading my mind.
My ex could’ve used a page from his book …
He places a couple of toys on her tray before fetching our wines and taking the seat across from me.
We’ve been doing this for months now, our little weekly dinners. And I enjoy Dan’s company and conversation. Not to mention Lucia adores him. Sometimes I catch myself pretending—in my head—that we’re a little family. And I try to envision what it’d be like to be married to him. I think he’d be the kind of husband who helps with laundry and irons the sheets. Mows the lawn in a crisscross pattern. Sweeps the garage out on the weekends. Plans family vacations down to the last detail.
And maybe that’d be swell and wonderful.
But without passion or a connection, everything else is moot.
Once I pictured kissing him. Like really imagined it. Eyes shut tight. Lips licked and half-open. His hands in my hair. All that jazz. But I felt nothing. And when it was over, I thought I was going to be sick.
It was like kissing a cousin—unsettling and wrong.
Not that I speak from experience.
“This dish is incredible, Rossi,” he says between bites. “I don’t know how, but every week you outdo yourself.”
For the half hour that follows, I make it a point to enjoy our tedious-yet-sweet little dinner … because after this Friday, something tells me my life will be quite the opposite.
Chapter 12
Fabian
* * *
“Well, hello there.” A taller, darker-haired, one-off version of Rossi answers her door Friday afternoon. Leaning against the jamb, she scans me from head to toe before flashing an ornery grin. “You must be the baby daddy.”
“I’m so sorry.” Rossi appears from behind the first woman, gently placing her hands on her shoulders and guiding her out of the way. “Come on in.”
Lifting my suitcase over the threshold, I step inside her foyer, inhaling the signature blackberry-vanilla scent I’ve come to associate with this place.
“This is my sister, Carina, by the way.” Rossi points between us. “Carina, this is Fabian.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“The pleasure is all mine.” The sister extends her hand to me. “I’ll try not to use my death grip on those mitts—I’m guessing they’re insured for millions. I’d hate to cost you Wimbledon.”
Rossi elbows her, leaning in. “You promised you wouldn’t make this weird …”
“Think we’re a little past weird, don’t you?” I intervene. “Pretty sure that ship sailed last week.”
Carina’s eyes widen. “Yes. Exactly.” She turns to me. “See, I like you already.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, deadpanning.
“Carina was just leaving for the day, isn’t that right, Carina?” Rossi checks her watch. “Shift ends at four-thirty and it’s four-thirty-eight, so …”
“I’m happy to stay if you need me to.” Carina bounces on her heels, hands clasped at her hips.
“Do you live here as well?” I ask.
“God, no. I’m just the nanny,” Carina says. “Twelve years of sharing a roof with this Type-A Martha Stewart was torture enough.”
“Type-A Martha Stewart?” I cock an eyebrow at Rossi.
“I’ve … relaxed … a bit over the years,” she says.
“If it could be color-coded or organized, she would color code it and organize it,” Carina says. “Books, CDs, DVDs, sticker collections, nail polish, sweaters, our game cabinet, Mom’s yarn basket, the medicine cabinet, cleaning supplies—”