11. Eleven
Eleven
Quinn
It’s the day of the photo shoot, and the coffee maker gurgles to life as sunlight streams through Vince’s floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the kitchen in golden morning light. I know exactly where everything is now—the artisan coffee beans in the cupboard above the sink, his favorite mug with ‘I live for rock ’n roll,’ and the raw sugar he pretends he doesn’t use.
“Is that actual coffee I smell?” Vince appears in the doorway, Jasmine cradled against his bare chest. Both of them look adorably rumpled from sleep. “You’re a lifesaver, Red.”
“The photographer will be here in twenty minutes,” I remind him, trying not to stare at all that exposed muscled skin. The tattoos spanning his shoulders seem to shift as he moves, and—nope, not going there. “You might want to put on a shirt.”
“Why?” His trademark smirk appears. “The fans love the shirtless shots.”
I shake my head. “This isn’t that kind of photo shoot.” I hand him his coffee—two sugars, even though he swears he drinks it black. “This is about showing your sweet side.”
“I don’t have a sweet side.” But he’s already pressing a kiss to Jasmine’s dark curls, completely undermining his own statement.
The doorbell rings, and Holly, the photographer Emily hired, arrives with her equipment, immediately cooing over Jasmine.
“Oh, she’s a living doll,” Holly says, already snapping test shots. “And that outfit is adorable.”
I smile because Jasmine is wearing a tiny Wild Band t-shirt I found online and couldn’t resist buying. The miniature version of the band’s logo spans her chest, complete with tiny sparkling rhinestones.
“Let me give you a quick tour,” I offer, “so you can scout your locations. Vince, why don’t you put on a shirt while we do that?”
“Spoilsport.” He winks at me but heads upstairs with Jasmine.
I lead Holly through the house, watching her photographer’s eye assess each space. When we reach the nursery, she gasps. The garden mural spanning the far wall looks alive in the morning light, each flower and butterfly rendered in stunning detail. The artist outdid herself; you’d swear you could reach out and pluck the blooming roses or catch one of the shimmering butterflies.
The lavender and mint color scheme manages to be both soothing and sophisticated, perfect for a rockstar’s daughter. Above the sleek white crib, the crystals in the butterfly mobile catch the light, sending rainbow prisms dancing across the walls. It’s magical—exactly what Vince wanted.
“This room is perfect,” Holly says, already setting up her equipment. “The lighting from these bay windows is bright without being harsh, and that mural will pull everything together nicely.”
Vince returns wearing a soft black henley that somehow makes him look even more devastating. He proudly shows Holly the state-of-the-art baby monitor on the dresser while holding Jasmine, whose eyes remain fixed on her beloved mobile.
The morning unfolds in a series of captured moments. Vince settles Jasmine into her crib, his expression impossibly tender. The way his hands, calloused from years of guitar strings, carefully adjust her blanket. How she wraps her tiny fingers around one of his, and his whole face transforms.
We next move to the deck, where the ocean provides another stunning backdrop. Vince points out passing sailboats to Jasmine, her tiny face rapt with attention at their bright colors. The sea breeze ruffles his dark hair as he cradles her close, protecting her from the wind.
“Okay,” Holly says finally, “I know you said no shirtless shots, but...”
I look up from my laptop. “But?”
“Trust me.” She adjusts her lens. “Vince, could you hold her against your chest again? Just like you were when you first came down this morning?”
He complies, handing Jasmine to me while he pulls off his shirt. I have to admit Holly’s right. There’s something powerful about the contrast—the notorious bad boy cradling his daughter so carefully, his dark-inked tattoos a backdrop to her innocent face.
“That’s it,” Holly whispers as Jasmine nuzzles into his neck. “That’s the money shot.”
She’s right. The photos will all but break the internet. But watching them together, something else is breaking too—my carefully constructed professional walls. Every tender moment I capture between father and daughter chips away at my defenses.
I knew today’s photoshoot would be special and show the world a different side of Vince Savage. But I never expected to feel this depth of emotion—my heart being completely undone in the process.
“Beautiful work, Holly,” I say, checking the final shots on my laptop. “These are exactly what we wanted.”
After Holly packs up her equipment and leaves, Vince turns to me, Jasmine still snuggled against his chest. “Will you stay for lunch? We could eat out here; it’s too perfect a day to be stuck inside.”
I should say no. I’ve already spent way too many unscheduled hours here lately. But the ocean breeze is calling, and watching Vince with Jasmine has left me feeling oddly agreeable.
“I could help put together a picnic,” I offer, already heading for the kitchen.
“Now that’s dangerous,” Vince teases, following me. “You’ve seen my cooking skills.”
“I’ve seen your takeout ordering skills.” I open his fridge, pleasantly surprised. “But someone’s been grocery shopping. Though it looks like most of this is for Jasmine.”
“The nanny service gave me a list. Apparently, rockstars can’t live on pizza alone when they have babies.”
Together, we assemble a respectable spread—crackers, multiple fruits, and some hummus I find tucked away. I pretend not to notice how easily we move around each other in the kitchen, how domestic it feels when he reaches around me for plates, his chest briefly pressing against my back—I’m just grateful he put his shirt back on.
Jasmine makes the perfect buffer when things get too intense, demanding a bottle or a diaper change. We take turns caring for her, and I try not to melt when Vince burps her with practiced ease, his large hand looking so gentle against her little back.
We settle on the deck, the partial covering sheltering us from the sun’s rays but still warm enough to be pleasant. Jasmine dozes in her portable bassinet while we spread our make-do lunch on the low table.
“I still can’t believe how much she’s changed everything,” Vince says, watching his daughter sleep. “Before she showed up, my biggest concern was which guitar to use for the bridge in our new song.”
“And now?”
“Now I research baby food brands at 3 AM and worry about which car seats have the highest safety ratings. He grins. “Don’t tell the guys. They’d never let me live it down.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” I pop a grape into my mouth. “Though after these photos go live, your bad boy image might take another hit.”
“Well, I thought I’d be more upset about that,” he says thoughtfully, “but maybe it’s time. I’ve been warned the whole sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll thing can get old after a while...” He glances at Jasmine. “I just didn’t realize it could be replaced so easily by a ten-pound bundle.” He stretches out, all lean muscle and casual grace. “Besides,” his eyes catch mine, “there are better things to stay up late for now.”
The way he says it makes my cheeks heat, but Jasmine chooses that moment to wake, demanding attention. I scoop her up, breathing in her sweet baby scent while Vince prepares her bottle.
The afternoon slips away in a haze of ocean views and easy conversation. When the sun starts to dip, painting the water in gold and pink. Vince orders Italian food without asking if I’m staying. The pasta arrives still steaming, and Vince carries the takeout containers back outside so we can eat as we watch the sunset.
After the food is gone, I should leave. But Jasmine is almost asleep on my chest, and Vince is telling stories about his childhood growing up with his grandmother, Reenie, and somehow, I find myself curled up on his absurdly comfortable deck furniture as stars begin to appear.
“It sounds like your grandmother loves to travel. Did you travel with her?” I ask as he leans back in his chair.
“Everywhere she went.” His smile turns nostalgic. “She had this ritual—whenever we visited a new city, we had to attend the symphony or opera. Said it would cultivate my appreciation for real music.”
“Did it work?”
“Let’s just say I learned to appreciate both Beethoven and Black Sabbath.” He chuckles. “Though she still winces every time I plug in an electric guitar.”
“But she comes to your concerts?”
“Front row, with earplugs firmly in place, when she can.” His expression softens. “She likes to watch. Says she might not understand my music, but she understands passion when she sees it. Even if it does give her a headache.”
The way he talks about Reenie with such open affection makes something twist in my chest. It’s so different from his usual carefully crafted playboy persona—this grandson who clearly adores his grandmother despite their different tastes in music.
“This is nice,” he says softly, and for once, there’s no innuendo, no carefully crafted charm—just Vince, backlit by the deck lights, looking at peace.
“It is.” I adjust Jasmine’s blanket, using the motion to hide how his genuine smile affects me.
Jasmine starts to fuss, and Vince glances at his watch. “Time for her bedtime routine. Want to help?”
I should say no, but instead, I find myself following him upstairs. The nursery feels different in the evening light, the garden mural softened by the gentle glow of the butterfly nightlight. Vince changes her while I warm a bottle. Our movements already synchronized after just one day.
“Here,” he says, settling into the plush rocker by the window. “You take the first shift.”
I cradle Jasmine, who latches onto the bottle immediately. Above us, the butterfly mobile cast dancing shadows on the walls. Vince leans against the crib, watching us with an expression I can’t quite read.
“You’re good with her,” he says softly.
“She makes it easy.” I stroke her cheek as she gazes up at me with her big green eyes.
When she finishes the bottle, Vince takes her, his movements gentle but confident as he burps her. We trade off again for her final cuddle, and I hum softly while her breathing evens out.
“Reenie used to play music to get me to sleep,” Vince murmurs, his voice thick with memory. “Every night, no matter where we were.”
The moment feels fragile and precious. I place Jasmine in her crib with infinite care, not wanting to break the spell. Vince adjusts her blanket and then touches one of the butterflies, sending shadows dancing across her peaceful face.
“She’s perfect.”
“Yeah, she is.” He moves closer, and I catch a hint of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive. “Want to know a secret? Sometimes, I just stand here and watch her sleep. I can’t believe she’s really mine.”
We stay there longer than we should, watching her sleep. When Vince’s hand brushes mine in the darkness, I tell myself it’s accidental.
When I finally gather my things to leave, Vince walks me to the door, and for a moment, I let myself imagine this is real—that I belong here in this little family.
“Thanks for staying,” he says, and his voice holds something dangerous, something that makes me want to lean in closer.
“Thanks for lunch. And dinner.” I step back, needing distance. “The photos will be ready tomorrow.”
Driving home, I realize I’m in trouble. I thought Jasmine would be the one to steal my heart—and she has, with those big green eyes that are impossible to resist. But her father? He’s the real threat. Because watching him become the man he is with her makes me want things I can’t have. Makes me want him in ways that have nothing to do with my job and everything to do with the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching.
Professional boundaries were so much easier before I knew what Vince Savage looked like, cradling his daughter against his hard, chiseled chest.