Page 77 of Tempting Tessa

“Conrad—” Matteo starts, but my father cuts him off.

“Don’t.” He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, his movements sharp and violent. “Don’t you dare say my name like we’re still friends.” He turns to me, and the look on his face makes my heart shatter into a million pieces. “And you. My own daughter.”

“Dad, please⁠—”

“I can’t do this right now.” His voice cracks, and that’s somehow worse than his anger. “I need to go before I say something I’ll regret.”

He turns on his heel and stalks toward the exit, not looking back. I watch him shove through the doors, his shoulders rigid, and disappear into the Sunday crowd.

The restaurant is dead silent. Every single person is staring at us—at me, at my swollen belly, at the man who just announced to the entire brunch crowd that he’s been fucking his best friend’s pregnant daughter.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think past the roaring in my ears and the acid churning in my stomach.

Matteo sits back down like nothing happened, reaching for his water glass with steady hands.

“You couldn’t just not do that,” I whisper, my voice shaking so hard I can barely form the words. “You couldn’t just let me handle it. You had to fucking announce it to the whole restaurant like it’s a goddamn press conference.”

He sets the glass down and turns to face me. There’s no smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes. Nothing but that intense, unwavering focus that makes my skin prickle.

“Contessa.” His voice is low, controlled. “You had ample time to tell him. Months. And the clock isn’t stopping.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“Do you think it would have been better to wait until after the baby was born? To show up at his door with a newborn and say, ‘surprise, here’s your grandchild, oh and by the way, your best friend is the father’?” He leans closer, his eyes boring into mine. “Or were you just going to cut your father off entirely with no explanation? Ghost him until he figured it out on his own?”

The words hit like a slap. Because he’s right—that’s exactly what I was doing. I was avoiding the conversation, pushing it off, hoping some miracle would make it unnecessary.

“He hates me,” I say, and my voice breaks on the last word. The tears I’ve been fighting spill over, hot and shameful. “He’ll never forgive me.”

Matteo’s hands come up to cup my face, his thumbs sweeping across my cheeks, catching the tears before they can fall further. The gesture is so tender it makes me cry harder.

“Listen to me.” His voice is firm but gentle. “He doesn’t hate you. He could never hate you. You’re his daughter, Contessa. He’s angry at me—rightfully so—but that anger is not directed at you.”

I shake my head, more tears spilling. “You didn’t see his face. The way he looked at me⁠—”

“I saw it.” His thumbs keep moving, wiping away each tear as it falls. “And I’m telling you, he’ll come around. It might take time, and yes, things are going to be different. But they were always going to be different. That’s what happens when your daughter grows up and builds her own life.”

“Different isn’t bad,” I whisper, echoing something he’s told me a dozen times before.

“Different isn’t bad,” he confirms, pressing his forehead against mine. “Your father loves you more than anything in this world. That doesn’t change because you’re pregnant with my child.”

I grip his wrists, holding his hands against my face. “What if he doesn’t? What if he never speaks to me again?”

“He will.” There’s absolute certainty in his voice, the kind that brooks no argument. “And until he does, I’ll handle it.”

I pull back to look at him. “Handle it how?”

“Conrad and I have been friends for twenty-five years. We’ve been through worse than this.” His mouth twitches. “Well, maybe not worse. But we’ll come to an agreement. That’s what men do.”

“An agreement,” I repeat, not sure if I should be relieved or terrified.

“He’s my best friend, Contessa. Was my best friend.” Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe, or grief for what’s been lost. “We’ll figure it out. And I don’t want you worrying about it.”

“Don’t want me worrying about it?” I let out a watery laugh. “My dad just found out his best friend knocked up his daughter in the middle of a crowded restaurant. How am I supposed to not worry?”

“Because that’s my job.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, then each cheek, then the tip of my nose. “Your job is to take care of yourself and our baby in ways that I cannot. Let me handle your father.”

I want to argue. Want to tell him he can’t just bulldoze through every problem in my life and expect me to fall in line. But the truth is, I’m exhausted. Emotionally, physically, completely drained. And the baby is kicking like crazy, reacting to my stress.