Page 231 of The Havenport Collection

Matteo

“ D ad, please read me another chapter.” I yawned. It was late and I was exhausted, and there was still so much more work ahead of me tonight.

I looked down at my beautiful girl, all snuggled up with her stuffed animals in her rainbow-themed bedroom.

My brother Gio and I had spent an entire weekend painting the rainbows and assembling the four-poster bed she had begged for.

It was a room fit for a princess. And my Valentina was nothing if not my princess.

She coughed, and my heart seized. “It’s fine, Dad. Just the sniffles.”

I unclenched, eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Yes. I’m just congested.”

“It’s been several days. Let’s call Dr. Lawson in the morning.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go to the doctor if you read one more chapter of Anne of Green Gables .”

I kissed her on the head. “Not tonight, kid. It’s a school night.”

“Dad, you are so lame,” she whined.

“Sorry, kiddo.” I shrugged while turning off the lights.

I was lame. It was part of the deal. The minute I became a dad, a small business owner, and turned forty, any street cred I had, any evidence of cool, instantly evaporated.

No amount of long hair or tattoos or the motorcycle gathering dust in my garage was going to change that.

I was a middle-aged dad. And I was at peace with that.

I switched on the humidifier in her room, turned up the hospital-grade air filter, and closed the blinds.

Her backpack sat on top of her desk, neatly packed for school.

I unzipped the front pocket to make sure her rescue inhaler was in there and closed it back up.

I always checked, every single day. I checked her backpack, my car, my pockets, and the nightstand every single day. I had to check.

Watching my baby girl struggle to breathe was something I could never forget. And I didn’t want to. That day was a wake-up call. It changed everything. I had never let my guard down since. Not even once.

The good news was that she might eventually grow out of her asthma.

The bad news was that it had been progressively getting worse over the last year.

Cold and flu season hit us hard, and she had to miss a lot of school.

We had two daily medications, the rescue inhalers, and weekly physical therapy to help build up her lung capacity.

My nerves were frayed, and some nights I woke up in a panic and had to check on her in the middle of the night.

I headed downstairs to find my phone, making sure to duck while entering the stairwell.

My brick Georgian house was built in 1830, and while my brother Gio helped me renovate it, some things could not be fixed.

I was tall, but not super tall, and sometimes I felt too big for my own house.

But we were about a quarter mile from downtown, and most importantly, most of my family members lived within walking distance.

My Nonna lived only a few houses down, in the home where she had raised my dad and his siblings, and Gio lived two blocks over.

It was a work in progress. I was constantly fixing and replacing things, as a nearly three hundred-year-old house needed a lot of TLC, but I loved it.

I had never owned a home, never thought it would be possible for me.

But I found this gem in need of a lot of love when I moved back to Havenport with Valentina.

And I wanted her to have it. To have a big bedroom and her own bathroom and a yard to run around in.

We had hosted birthday parties and family holidays in this house, and it was worth every single drop of sweat equity I had put into it.

It was already after nine, and I needed to call Will to make sure closing went okay.

It was hard for me to leave my restaurant early most nights, but I had to learn to delegate once I realized how critical the dinner, homework, and bedtime routine was with Val.

Tonight we played a few rounds of chess.

I won, but barely. She was getting really good and loved to trash talk.

I continued to marvel how I produced such a smart kid.

I packed up the chess set, filled the dishwasher, and rooted around in the junk drawer for a hair tie so I could pull my hair off my face.

I could use a trim. My usually chin-length locks had officially reached my shoulders.

If I wasn’t careful, my brothers would start mocking me mercilessly.

Finally, I sat down at my laptop, going through today’s numbers and updating our orders for the weekend.

My inbox was overflowing—school fundraisers, soccer schedules, planning for the upcoming Havenport summer festivals, and one that made my blood run cold.

Another email from Mandy, Val’s mother. She was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment.

Running a small business was no joke. There were days it was more difficult than parenting.

Like my daughter, my restaurant required daily discipline, love, and cost me lots of money.

Most days I kicked myself for not going to college and grabbing some boring office job at the first chance.

After sixteen hours on my feet—cooking, cleaning, and dealing with employees, suppliers and customers—I longed for an eight-hour day spent in a cubicle.

And to top it off, Marissa, our after-school babysitter, was studying abroad this semester, and I had been sleeping four hours a night trying to get everything done.

My poor kid spent most afternoons doing her homework in my restaurant, the laundry never got done, and there was no time for anything but the bare minimum.

I had been in survival mode for years, and it was taking a toll on me.

But I vowed to give my little girl a hundred percent every day, and I did, even if it was at my own expense.

Before I could start on the next set of reports, I heard a familiar knock on my door.

“Asshole,” I said, opening the door for my twin.

“Fuckface,” Gio replied, holding up a six-pack.

“I’m back from France; thought you’d want to catch up.

” My twin brother, Gio, was a true Renaissance man.

A trained sommelier, he was the primary buyer for an American wine importer.

In his spare time, he was an extremely talented finish carpenter.

He lived a few blocks away in a bungalow he had rehabbed and was always dropping by to raid my fridge and spoil my daughter.

“Okay, okay,” I said, leading him into the kitchen and grabbing a beer. “Tell me everything.”

“France is France. I’ve been there a dozen times. You know the drill. Tour the wineries, taste stuff, place orders for what will work for my clients, and then come home.”

“Sure. I’m sure that’s all that happened.”

He smirked. Which was rare. That fucker was even more stoic than I was. “There may have been some extracurricular activities.”

“Chloe?” I asked.

He nodded and took a sip. “She’s based in Nice now. Doing her thing. We went out for some amazing meals, saw some art, drank some wine, and fucked.”

“Sounds like a great trip.” I rolled my eyes.

Gio, despite looking like me and having the same gruff exterior, was an international ladies’ man.

He always managed to attract interesting, beautiful women wherever he traveled.

He had been hooking up with Chloe every time he went to France for almost a decade.

She was a chill European chick who didn’t do commitment—essentially a more sophisticated version of my brother.

“It was. I got a lot of work done. Made some money. It’s all good.”

“You certainly look relaxed.”

“You could use some relaxation yourself, brother.”

“You know there are no vacations in the restaurant business.”

“I mean of the sexy variety.”

I laughed so loud I was afraid I’d wake Val. “No way. That ship has long since sailed. No woman is interested in a workaholic single dad who perpetually smells like garlic.”

“When you put it like that…”

I flipped my bottle cap at him. “Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. It’s been years. I know you’re busy taking care of everyone all the time, but sometimes you need to take care of yourself. How long has it been?”

“Since I had sex?” I ran my hands through my hair. “I don’t know; maybe three years.”

Gio slammed his beer bottle on the table. “Jesus Christ, man. Does your dick still work? I know you’re old. But you’re not that old. You should see a doctor.”

“Fuck you. Everything works. And we’re the same age.”

“You’re six minutes older. But seriously. Why don’t you let Christian and Dante fix you up? They know everyone.”

“That is the last thing I need. The last time they set me up it was a disaster. I don’t need matchmakers.

I just need to be left alone so I can work and raise my kid.

” My brother Christian and his husband Dante relocated here from Manhattan.

In addition to being the best-dressed people in Havenport, they were also the most benevolent, investing in local businesses, sponsoring scholarships for kids, and fixing up wayward souls, such as myself.

They had tried over the years to introduce me to various women, mostly clients from Dante’s salon, but I refused.

He tipped his beer bottle at me. “Spoken like a man who needs to get laid.”

“Shut up. I still can’t believe women throw themselves at you. You’re shorter and just as grumpy as I am.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, brother. I,”—he gestured dramatically to himself—“am brooding and tortured. You,” he continued, waving a hand at me, “are just cranky. There’s a big difference. I’m sexy, and you’re a crotchety old man.”