“That’s what you want to give them for their anniversary?” I ask.

“Yes.” B steps closer beside me, but I don’t look. I can’t.

I can’t tear my gaze away from the five-foot-tall sculpture in front of me.

“What do you think?” she asks, and she’s lucky she’s an artist and not a therapist, because I know my poker face isn’t strong. In fact, I’m fairly certain even Coco thinks there’s something wrong with the idea of giving a larger-than-life-sized dirty bird to her bisnonno and bisnonna.

She steps closer to the sculpture, her eyes wide as saucers when she turns around to look at me. “Can I touch it?”

B nods. “Go ahead, sweetie. But be gentle.”

Coco extends one hand up over the wheels of the trailer attached to the back of B’s car, and gingerly pokes the bird.

“Do you like it?” B asks again, and I know it’s time. It’s time to break my sister’s heart, even though I hate to do it.

“B, I’m sorry. But we can’t give this to Nonno and Nonna,” I say, shaking my head.

“But it’s a symbol of love,” she insists.

“Pigeons are a symbol of ruined picnics and the movie Mary Poppins,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Are you sure you’re not thinking of doves?”

“They’re from the same bird family. And I couldn’t find any white feathers last minute.” She walks to Coco’s side, taking my girl’s hand in hers. “Don’t you think it looks lifelike?”

I nod. She’s nailed it in that department. The giant bird looks as if it could take flight at any moment, and I kinda wish it would.

“We can dye the feathers white. Or spray it.” Her eyes sparkle as she glances back at me.

“No.” I shake my head. “No way, no how, and on no planet can we give this to our grandparents. Where would they keep it? What would they do with it?”

“Maybe they could pwetend it was weal,” Coco suggests, her eyes pleading as she looks up at me. “I’d weally love a pet dog.”

My chest clenches. I wanna give this girl the world. I wanna give her a good education, a safe home, all the clothes and toys she could possibly desire—but a dog is just too hard for us right now.

“Coco, sweetie, we’ve talked about this.” I crouch down to her level. “We can’t get a pet because we don’t have enough time to look after it.”

“Aunt B could help?” Those big brown eyes flick to my sister. “Couldn’t you?”

“I will always be here to help, but a pet dog is a big responsibility,” B replies, and I can see her heart breaking at having to break her niece’s.

“’Fia?” Coco turns the charm on her next victim, our nanny.

“Of course I would help, darling. But your daddy’s word is final on this.” Sophia looks at her wristwatch. “Now, why don’t we go get ready for bed? Then Daddy can read you your bedtime story.”

Coco bites her lip, considering, then nods. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

She skips toward the house, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that another time, the answer will be the same as it was today, the same as it was a week ago, and the same as it will likely be a month from now. A dog is too much for us—simple.

“You know, if you had a girlfriend, she could care for a dog,” B says, falling in step beside me as we head toward the house.

“Sound dating advice, sis.” I frame my hands in front of my face as if picturing an ad for a potential lover in a newspaper. “That’s what I look for in a woman. Must be kind, funny, love coffee and baked goods, and be available to look after my child and clean up puppy shit while I’m at work.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” She rolls her eyes. “Now, for the fiftieth time, will you please tell me what's going on with you and Romy?"

I cringe. She's been asking me the same question all week.

“Ah! The girl from the bakery?” Sophia’s ears seem to prick up. As well as being a stellar nanny, she’s also a pretty great cousin, and it seems she’s inherited our nonna’s love for matchmaking just like B did.

“Yes. You should have seen them together while you were away. The chemistry was . . .” B fans her face dramatically, “inferno.”

“When I saw them at the café a few weeks back, she looked at him as if she wanted to lick him all over.” Sophia wiggles her brows, and damn it, I hate the pictures flashing through my mind.

Romy. That sweet pink tongue slowly tracing a path over my lips. Her nails raking down my back. Her pussy pressed hard against me.

I scrub a hand at the back of my neck, trying to shake the image away. That will never be. Because, just like every other woman who’s come into my life since Coco’s mom walked out, she left once she found out I was a package deal. In fact, she ran a goddamn mile.

“Turns out she’s not my type after all,” I mumble, picking up the pace and stepping inside the house.

“Are you serious? She is perfect for you,” B insists.

“Perfezione,” Sophia agrees.

“Things were going so well,” B adds. “What happened when you went pumpkin picking together?”

“You took her pumpkin picking? So romantic,” Sophia gushes.

I turn to face the Italian inquisition. “Things were going well, and then something changed. She’s not interested in a guy who comes with a ready-made family, and she more or less said as much when I took her to the field. After you forced us into it.” I narrow my eyes at B. Romy’s words still burn in my mind. I really liked the tart the other day—but it came with a side dish that left a bad taste in my mouth.

“Bitch!” Sophia’s face turns to steel. “Who could not love that little girl?”

“Are you sure?” B doesn’t look convinced. “I wouldn’t think she was the type.”

“Neither did I.” If I had, I wouldn’t have let myself fall so hard.

Coco skips down the stairs toward us, her brown curls bouncing over her shoulders. Bright pink pajamas swathe her small frame, and she clutches a book tightly in her hands. “I’m ready!” she sings in this sweet-as-shit voice that gets me every time.

While my ex, Pamela, may not have felt that parental instinct, I sure did.

I felt it every time I looked at my baby girl back then, and I feel it now. How could Romy not want this?

“Book in bed or on the couch?” Coco asks me, her eyes lingering on the living room behind us.

“Bed,” I say, since I know reading on the couch means she’s hoping she can sneak in some TV time after that.

“Okay.” Her spirits don’t dampen as she turns to her nanny. “Night, ’Fia.”

“Buona notte. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” Sophia crouches down for a hug and Coco throws herself into it, the book wedged between them.

“Good night, my little princess.” B’s next, and Coco repeats the process, lingering in my sister’s arms a fraction longer. B’s whole face changes when she holds my daughter like this—it softens. It shines. She’ll make a great mother someday.

When she eventually pulls away, she looks over to Sophia. “I’m going to head home. I have a giant bird to tend to.”

“Si. Buona notte,” Sophia says, looking to Coco and then me. “Why don’t I tuck Coco in, get her ready for you and your book while you and B say goodnight?”

“Thanks.” I turn to Coco as she holds the book out for me to take. “I’ll see you there in a minute.”

“’Kay, Daddy.” She heads up the stairs with Sophia close behind.

B and I walk to the door. I have no idea where she’s going to store her giant bird, but I’m sure she’s got a plan. B’s always got a plan.

“Are you sure Romy’s not interested now she knows you have a kid?” she asks again, shaking her head as if she knows she has two pieces, but they’re not adding up to make a whole.

“Sure as they come.”

“But she seemed so sweet with Coco at dinner, and again that day when I caught you two experimenting with food in the kitchen.” Her tone implies our experiment was a lot more X-rated than it really was.

I wish our experiment was a lot more X-rated than it had been. I wish I’d swiped the cake off the table and eaten her instead.

“Hello? Elio?” B waves a hand in front of my face, snapping me from my fantasy. “I don’t think you should just let her get away.”

“I’m not.” I bristle, then lower my voice in case my daughter decides she needs just one more drink of water before bed. Anything to put off sleep. “She’s the one who can’t handle the idea of being with a guy who comes with a kid. And if she doesn’t want us, we don’t want her.”

“But that’s the rub.” She reaches over to place a hand on my shoulder. “You do. I haven’t seen you so worked up, so emotional about a girl—”

“Since Pamela,” I finish for her, glum.

“No.” She shakes her head, her expression soft again. “I was going to say ever.”

Ever? Is she for real?

B must read the expression on my face. “Just think about it.” She reaches for the book in my hand. “Maybe you need to take some advice from this.”

I glance down. The Tortoise and the Hare shines in gold foil on the cover. “Coco and I need to keep plodding along until I find someone who wants us for who we are?” Pretty depressing advice, if you ask me.

“No.” She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out her car keys. “You should be persistent. Give Romy time to get used to the idea of having a family and try to win her affections again.”

“B . . .” I shake my head. She doesn’t know how hard it is. How I already risked so much by letting her in in the first place.

“Slow and steady wins the race, Elio, and I don’t think that girl’s heart has fled as far away as you think.” She kisses me on either cheek, then gives a small wave as she heads to her car.

As I walk upstairs to Coco’s room, I wonder if she’s right. What if Romy just had a knee-jerk reaction? What if she could come around to want not just me, but my daughter, too?

Sophia gives me a warm smile as she passes me on her way downstairs, no doubt headed for the kitchen and a big glass of wine, as is her nightly ritual. I push open the door to Coco’s room. Her bedside lamp casts a warm glow. Coco has the pink bedspread pulled right up to her chin, a huge smile lighting her face.

“What’s got you so happy?” I ask as I make my way over to the corner of the mattress and sit beside her.

“Just finking how much I love you, and Aunt B,” she says with all the sage wisdom of a four-year-old, and fuck it. Fuck women who don’t want to accept that I come with this beautiful child, because they don’t deserve her sweetness in their life. They don’t deserve it at all.

“We love you too, Coco.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “Now, shall we get into this book?”

“Yesh, pwease.” She nods eagerly, and I begin to read.

But as I reach the end of the story about the tortoise finishing first despite his lack of speed, B’s words ring in my ears, and I wonder if I’m behaving like the hare after all. Coco is my world—there’s no doubting that.

But slow and steady wins the race. And maybe, just maybe, I’m quitting before I’ve even left the starter blocks.