6. Six
Six
Vince
The wailing hits me before I even open the front door.
A baby’s cry—high-pitched, desperate, and coming from my doorstep at—I check my phone—2:47 in the morning. What the hell?
I yank open the door, ready to tell off whatever neighbor decided my porch was a good place for a late-night crisis. But there’s no neighbor. Just a car seat, a diaper bag, and a squirming, red-faced bundle wrapped in a pink blanket.
“Shit.” The angry word escapes before I can stop it, which only makes the baby cry harder. A piece of paper is tucked into the side of the car seat, my name scrawled across the folded edge.
My hands shake as I pull it free.
Vince,
Meet your daughter, Jasmine Savage. She’s six months old and teething. I can’t do this anymore. I never wanted to be a mother. She’s your problem now. I’ll contact you when I’m ready.
- Daisy
Daisy. Daisy? I rack my brain, trying to place her. Blonde hair. She always wore clothes with daisies on them. I met her backstage after a show in Nashville?—no, Memphis, where we performed—about nine months before this baby was born.
The baby, Jasmine, lets out another piercing wail, and reality slams into me like a freight train.
I have a daughter?!
I have a daughter, and she’s alone on my doorstep in the middle of the night, and I don’t know the first thing about babies, and holy hell, is that smell coming from her diaper?
My phone is in my hand, and before I can think, Quinn’s number comes up automatically. Then I stop. What am I doing? It’s nearly 3 a.m., and this isn’t some social media crisis she can fix with a well-timed tweet.
Except... if anyone knows how to handle impossible situations, it’s Quinn. And this? This is about as impossible as it gets.
Fuck. No. I can’t do that to her. Emily—Emily is who I should call. She’s not only the band manager; she’s a mother. She’s been through this. She’ll know what to do.
Jasmine’s cries are reaching a new pitch that makes my ears ring. In the distance, a dog starts barking.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, crouching down beside the car seat. “Let’s just... get you inside, and then we’ll figure this out.”
I reach for the carrier’s handle like it might explode. Knowing my luck, it probably will.
The moment I lift it, Jasmine’s screams double in volume. Great. Just fucking great.
The moment I shut the door, I fumble with my phone, hitting Emily’s contact. It rings four times before her sleep-heavy voice answers.
“Vince? It’s three in the morning. Someone better be dead.”
“Worse.” I wince as Jasmine hits a note that could shatter glass. “I need help. There’s a baby—“
“A what?”
“A baby. On my doorstep. With a note. She’s mine, apparently. Six months old and—“ I stop as Jasmine’s wail reaches a new intensity. “Can you come over? Please? I have no idea what I’m doing.”
There’s rustling on the other end, followed by a muffled conversation, I assume, with Sam. “Give me fifteen minutes. Try not to drop her before I get there.”
The next quarter hour is the longest of my life. I manage to get Jasmine and her car seat into the living room, but every attempt to touch her sets off fresh screams. Something hard falls out of the blanket—a purple teething ring.
Emily arrives in what looks like pajamas under her coat, her dark hair hastily pulled back. She takes one look at the scene—me, hovering helplessly over a screaming infant—and springs into action.
“First things first,” she says, picking up the teething ring. “This needs to go in the freezer. The cold will help with her gums.” She heads to my kitchen like she owns it. “And we’re calling my pediatrician first thing Monday morning for a paternity test.”
“You think she might not be—“
“I think we need to be sure.” She returns, expertly lifting Jasmine from the car seat. “Though looking at that scowl, she’s definitely got your temperament.”
The baby quiets slightly in Emily’s arms, hiccupping between sobs as Emily gently rubs her gums. “How did you do that?”
“Practice. Presley was a nightmare teether.” She checks the diaper with practiced efficiency. “She definitely needs changing. Please tell me there are diapers in that bag.”
I dump out the contents. Diapers, wipes, a few onesies, two bottles, and some formula tumble onto my coffee table. Emily talks me through a diaper change that leaves me sweating like I’ve just done a two-hour set.
“You’re going to need help,” she says, watching me struggle to secure the tabs. “A nanny. Plus, you’ll need to baby-proof your house. And—“
As if sensing we’re talking about her, Jasmine’s cries suddenly taper off. Her tiny fists unclench, and she blinks up at us with startling green eyes framed by impossibly long black lashes. When she catches Emily’s gaze, her whole face transforms into a big, beautiful smile.
Emily’s expression softens. “Well, would you look at that?” She glances between the baby and me, shaking her head with a knowing smile. “I’d say we could probably skip that paternity test—but we won’t. She’s got your eyes and that smile—poor kid’s definitely stuck with your genetically blessed genes.”
I can’t help but stare at my daughter—my daughter—as she continues to beam up at us. The knot in my chest loosens just a fraction. Even with a runny nose and tear-stained cheeks, she’s absolutely beautiful.
“She’s something else when she’s not screaming bloody murder, isn’t she?” Emily says softly.
“Yes,” I manage, my throat uncharacteristically tight.
Emily bends to pick up Jasmine, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “You’ll want to get started interviewing nannies right away—“
“I know someone good with schedules,” I mutter, thinking of Quinn again.
Emily gives me a sharp look. “Don’t even think about it. Quinn’s your social media manager, not your personal assistant. She has enough on her plate to keep your online presence under control. And you’re going to need a lot more than scheduling help.”
She stays another hour, showing me how to make a bottle, how to hold Jasmine while she drinks it, and how to burp her after. The frozen teething ring seems to help; the screaming has mostly subsided to occasional whimpers.
“I’ll send you some names—pediatricians, nanny services, baby-proofing companies.” Emily gathers her things around 4:30, just as Jasmine finally drifts off on my couch, surrounded by pillows. “But Vince?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s your responsibility now. I’ll help where I can, but this little girl needs her father.”
I look down at Jasmine’s sleeping face, so tiny and vulnerable. “I don’t know how to be a father.”
Emily pauses at the door, a knowing smile on her face. “Nobody does at first. Welcome to parenthood, Vince.”
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with my sleeping daughter and the dawning realization that my life will never be the same.
The doorbell’s relentless chiming jerks me awake. My neck screams in protest—sleeping on the floor was definitely not my brightest idea, but I couldn’t risk moving Jasmine from her pillow fortress on the couch.
“Coming,” I growl, stumbling to my feet. The doorbell keeps ringing. “Jesus, I said I’m—“
Quinn stands on my doorstep, tablet in hand, looking fresh and put-together despite the early hour. Her eyes rake over my rumpled appearance, taking in yesterday’s clothes and what I’m sure is a spectacular bedhead.
“Wow.” Her lips twitch. “Did some woman keep you up all night?”
“Yes. No… Quinn, I can explain—“
A baby’s whimper cuts through the air. Quinn’s eyes widen as she peers past me into the living room. “Is that...?”
“A baby. My daughter.” The words still feel foreign on my tongue. “And yeah, she did keep me up all night…”
She pushes past me, freezing at the sight of Jasmine, who’s now awake and gnawing on her fist. “Your... when did you... how…? I was just here yesterday.”
I give her the Cliff Notes version while Jasmine watches us with those striking green eyes.
“You’ll need supplies,” Quinn announces, already tapping on her tablet. “A crib, diapers, clothes—“
“She came with a car seat,” I offer weakly.
She eyes my low-slung Ferrari parked in the driveway and arches a skeptical brow. “Nice ride, but unless you plan on strapping the baby seat to the roof, we’ll need to take my SUV.”
An hour later, dressed in an oversized hoodie and ballcap firmly in place, we’re pushing two overflowing carts through Baby Empire, and I’m pretty sure my credit card has caught fire. Quinn’s methodically checking items off her list while I trail behind with Jasmine, still in her car seat, who’s contentedly gumming her frozen teething ring.
Forgetting my disguise, I stupidly push my sunglasses up when trying to read the fine print on formula labels. It’s an amateur move for someone who’s spent years dodging paparazzi.
“Oh my goodness, what a beautiful family!” An elderly woman coos, peering into my cart. “She has your eyes, young man.”
Before I can correct her, Quinn smoothly steps in. “Thank you. We’re just stocking up on the essentials.”
“Essentials?” I mutter when the woman moves on, securing my sunglasses back over my eyes and tugging my hood lower. “I feel like we bought out the entire store.”
“Trust me, with babies, there’s no such thing as being too prepared,” Quinn states firmly.
We’re in the toy section when I spot it: the biggest teddy bear I’ve ever seen, with soft brown fur and a green bow that matches Jasmine’s eyes.
“No,” Quinn says firmly.
I’m already reaching for it. “But—“
“She’s six months old. That thing is ten times bigger than she is.”
“She’ll grow into it.” I put the bear on top of the cart, ignoring Quinn’s eye roll.
The cashier’s eyes bulge at our total. Quinn efficiently organizes the loading while I wrestle with installing the car seat base. After ten minutes of sweating and swearing under my breath, she gently hip-checks me aside.
“Like this,” she demonstrates, securing it in seconds.
“Show-off.”
“I told you—oldest of five,” she explains, efficiently securing the straps. “Trust me, I’ve done this before.” She helps me buckle in Jasmine, who’s falling asleep again. “We need a plan,” Quinn says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “The minute this hits social media, it’ll explode. And trust me, it will hit. We need to control how this story breaks.”
“Later,” I say, watching Jasmine sleep. “Right now, I just want to get her home and figure out a way to get through the next few days.”
Quinn’s expression softens. “One step at a time. We’ll get there.”
Back at my place, Quinn helps me sort through the mountain of bags. “Vince, we do have some time, but this story will break soon. We’ll need a strategy.”
“Strategy?” I adjust Jasmine in my arms as she fusses with her teething ring. “She’s a baby, not a social media crisis.”
“She’s both.” Quinn’s fingers fly over her tablet. “Celebrity musician discovers secret baby? The media will have a field day. We need to meet with Emily and work out how to handle this.”
“Handle what? I have a daughter—maybe. End of story.”
“Beginning of story,” she corrects. “Who’s the mother? Why didn’t you know? Are you sure she’s yours? The questions are endless, and if we don’t control the narrative—“
“Fine.” I sigh as Jasmine drops her teething ring for the hundredth time. “Set up the meeting.”
“Already texting Emily.” Quinn starts gathering her things. “Try to get some sleep. You look like you went three rounds with your electric guitar and lost.”
“Thanks for today,” I say, meaning it. “I wouldn’t have known where to start.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” She pauses at the door. “Don’t worry. You’ll get better at this with practice.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She rolls her eyes. “Bye, Vince.”
After she leaves, I take a deep, calming breath to try to control my sudden panic at the current situation. I sink into the couch, Jasmine still in my arms, and slowly look around. The house feels different now, filled with baby gear and a huge weight of responsibility that I never expected. The giant teddy bear watches from the corner, a silent witness to my new reality.
Jasmine stirs, those brilliant green eyes—my eyes—blinking up at me. For the first time since we’re alone, she’s not crying or fussing. She just looks at me like she’s trying to figure out who I am. Join the club, kid.
Then she does something that stops my heart: she reaches up, tiny fingers wrapping around one of mine, and smiles. Not the brief flashes we saw earlier, but that full-on smile that transforms her whole face.
“Hey there, beautiful,” I whisper, and her grip tightens. At that moment, something shifts inside me—a feeling more powerful than any standing ovation, a platinum record, or any rush I’ve ever known. This tiny person, with her miniature fingers wrapped around mine—just stole my heart.