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)
“Hi,” her greeting says. “You’ve reached Rossi Bianco with Bianco Genealogy. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
It’s eleven o’clock here, which means it’s 1 AM there. She’s probably sleeping, which means at least she isn’t blatantly ignoring me.
Head pressed against the window, I wait for the beep.
“Rossi, it’s me,” I say. “Just wanted to hear your voice … guess I’ll settle for your voicemail.” I chuckle. “Anyway, I miss you. I’ve been running around here like crazy the last couple of days, but I haven’t stopped thinking about you once. And all the things you said on Sunday. I know you’re scared, Rossi. But we can take this slow. And the stuff with Tatum—that’s not going to change anything. I know I probably sound like a broken record and I’m not telling you anything I haven’t already told you … but maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to hear it again.” I laugh through my nose—I’ve never done the whole lovesick puppy thing. I’ve never had to beg or grovel or prove that I was worthy to be the apple of anyone’s eye. “First time I ever saw you, I forgot to breathe. Second time we met, I realized you were a woman who didn’t need me, didn’t want a damn thing from me, and not only that, but you were genuine and honest. You weren’t trying to impress me, but you did it anyway. Without even trying. And your lips, Rossi … I live for those lips, the way they turn bright pink and swollen when I kiss you. And watching you with Lucia …” I gather a breath. “Couldn’t ask for a better mother. Your love for—”
“If you’d like to hear your message, please press one,” an automated voice cuts me off.
God damn it.
I hang up, pray it went through, and hit the sheets.
I’ve got an early flight to catch, and the sooner I close my eyes, the sooner I’ll see my girls.
I settle into my seat on my jet Wednesday morning when my publicist calls.
“Fabian, I’m so glad you answered.” She’s breathless and her voice echoes.
“Take me off speaker, Phoebe. You know I fucking hate that shit.”
Two seconds later, she says, “Fine. Better?”
“What’s going on? We’re about to take off.”
“So there are these pictures that are going out in the next couple of days. Someone’s been shopping them around,” she says.
“Yes, the one of Tatum and I at LaGrange. We already discussed this yesterday, and —”
“—no,” she interrupts. “These are different pictures. Nothing to do with Tatum.”
I can’t imagine what other pictures someone would have of me that would put me in any sort of scandalous positions, but I hear her out.
“So it’s you and a baby,” she says.
With those six words, my blood turns to ice, cracking in my veins. “The fuck are you talking about, Phoebe?”
“There’s some woman in Illinois claiming you’re the father of her baby girl,” she says. “She’s got pictures of the two of you together, and Fabian, before you say anything, they aren’t photoshopped. I had my guy verify that. Also this baby is the spitting image of you. Two secs and I’ll forward the screenshots to you.”
Jaw clenched, I wait for my phone to vibrate, and then I check the images.
Sure enough, they’re the ones Rossi took of Lucia and me last week—after I made her swear on her life she’d never share them.
“Fabian, you still with me?” Phoebe asks.
“Mr. Catalano, we’ll be taking off momentarily.” My flight attendant delivers a flute of organic orange juice and Cristal along with an egg white omelet destined to go cold because I’m about to be sick.
“There’s been a lot of interest in these pics,” Phoebe continues. “All the magazines want it. I heard one of them wants to run a cover story with some headline about your secret love child. Please tell me this is a niece or something?”
I wish I could.
“You’ve been in Chicago the last couple of weeks—this woman is from Chicago,” she says, spacing out her words as if she’s piecing it all together. “Please tell me you didn’t get pussy whipped by some Midwestern con-artist …”
Leaning back, I pinch my nose and breathe out.
“I’m going to need some kind of statement,” she says. “So you’re going to have to give me something to work with. How are you involved with this woman and this baby?”
While Phoebe is an utmost professional, heads one of the top publicist firms in the world, and signed an ironclad NDA, I wasn’t exactly prepared to have to share this with her.
Or anyone.
Ever.
“They’re trying to get her to do an interview,” Phoebe adds. “But so far it’s just pictures. Which actually is kind of worse because then the articles can say whatever they want and they’re going to print shock value shit, whatever’s going to move more copies.”