7. Seven
Seven
Quinn
I pull into Vince’s driveway, right behind Emily’s family SUV. She’s standing at the front door, and I step out to join her as the door is opened by a disheveled-looking Vince. His dark hair is sticking up on one side like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, and there’s what looks like baby formula on his faded Zeppelin t-shirt. Those famous green eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, but there’s something else there, too—a softness I’ve never seen before.
Two days of sudden parenthood have turned his oceanfront home into something resembling organized chaos. Evidence of a newborn’s invasion is everywhere. A half-assembled bassinet dominates one corner, bottles and burp cloths litter every surface, and there’s what appears to be last night’s dishes still piled in the sink. The dining room table has become command central, covered with pacifiers, wipes, and formula cans.
Leaving us to shut the door, Vince continues walking circles around the living room with Jasmine against his shoulder, his expression a mix of determination and complete exhaustion.
“How’s our new daddy holding up?” Emily asks, already clearing space at the table for her laptop.
“I’ve got exactly one trick that works,” Vince says, just as Jasmine starts to fuss. He reaches for his acoustic guitar, settling into the couch with her propped against his side. The moment his fingers touch the strings, her whimpers fade. “She likes our latest single, apparently.”
“I can see that,” I say, watching as Jasmine’s tiny hand reaches toward his face. The way she lights up when he smiles down at her makes my heart do uncomfortable things.
Just then, Jasmine squirms and Vince sets down the guitar, his expression shifting to panic. He lifts her carefully, holding her away from his body as if she’s suddenly dangerous. As I move closer, my gaze lands on the makeshift diaper he’s fashioned.
“Vince…” I start, unable to keep the laughter from my voice. “Is that…a band t-shirt?”
He glances at me, scowling defensively even as embarrassment colors his cheeks. “What else was I supposed to use? It’s clean, I swear.”
Emily and I exchange glances as I bite back a smile, stepping forward to examine the expertly knotted Wild Band tour shirt around Jasmine’s bottom. “Very innovative. But I’m guessing you ran out of actual diapers?”
He sighs heavily, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. “They went faster than expected. Apparently, babies are bottomless pits in more ways than one.”
Laughing softly, I gently tickle Jasmine’s cheek. She giggles happily, oblivious to her unconventional attire.
“Come on,” I say softly, nudging Vince gently with my shoulder. “I found an extra pack of diapers in my car from yesterday’s shopping trip. Let’s get you two sorted out before you sacrifice your entire wardrobe.”
Once Jasmine is properly diapered and content, Vince gives me a grateful, if slightly embarrassed, smile as she continues to babble happily.”
Emily clears her throat, pulling our attention back to the urgency of the moment.
“We need to talk strategy,” Emily says, all business. “Monday morning, first thing—paternity test.”
“Look at those eyes,” Vince says softly, not looking up. “She’s mine.”
“Obviously,” Emily agrees. “But we need documentation. The press will demand it when this breaks.”
“Is it normal?” Vince asks suddenly, his brow furrowed. “The way she cries every time I try to put her down?”
Emily’s expression softens. “It’s perfectly normal. She’s dealing with a lot of changes. Give her a few days to feel secure.”
“Thank God,” he mutters, shifting Jasmine slightly as she starts to doze. “I was starting to think I was doing something wrong.”
“How much sleep did you get last night?” I ask, noting the dark circles under his eyes.
“Define sleep.” He adjusts Jasmine’s blanket with careful fingers. “She’s up every couple of hours. Three? Maybe four total?”
Emily winces. “Welcome to parenthood. Is she at least taking the formula okay?”
“Yeah, that part’s working.” His voice drops as Jasmine’s eyes flutter closed. “It’s just... everything’s happening so fast, you know? Yesterday, I was worried about our summer tour dates, but now...” He trails off, looking down at his sleeping daughter.
“Which is exactly why we need a plan,” I say gently, setting my bag on the table. “The sooner we figure out how to handle this publicly, the more you can focus on just being her dad. We have several options.”
I take a deep breath, hating what I’m about to say. “The ideal scenario, PR-wise? If we could locate the mother and orchestrate a reunion. The public eats up those kinds of stories.”
“No.” Vince’s voice is quiet but firm. His fingers never stop their gentle strumming, but his jaw sets. “That’s not happening.”
The relief that floods through me is completely unprofessional. I push it aside. “Then we need another angle. Something that plays to your strengths.”
“Doting single dad,” Emily muses, typing rapidly. “We focus on the music connection—how she already responds to your playing. Position you as stepping up and doing the right thing.”
“We’ll need pictures,” I add. “Professional ones, carefully staged, before any paparazzi shots surface. Control the narrative from the start.”
Jasmine stirs, making those little grunting noises I’m learning mean she’s hungry. Vince recognizes it, too, reaching for the pre-made bottle on the coffee table. He’s got that part down at least, though he still checks with Emily and me—a quick glance—to make sure he’s holding it at the right angle.
“I know just the photographer,” Emily says. “And Quinn—can you help with the nanny interviews? I’ve got an agency sending over their top candidates this afternoon.”
“I can assist with that,” I hear myself saying, even as my inner voice screams about maintaining professional boundaries. “I mean, I’m familiar with Vince’s schedule and his requirements.”
“Perfect.” Emily’s already making calls. “Now, about the press release and social media posts—“
Jasmine pulls away from her bottle with a hiccup, and Vince automatically lifts her to his shoulder, patting her back like he was taught yesterday. When she lets out a tiny burp, his proud grin is ridiculously endearing.
Business, Quinn. I remind myself—this is just helping a client.
Right. Because watching Vince Savage navigate his way through newfound fatherhood, that mixture of uncertainty and absolute dedication, isn’t doing things to my heart at all.
“Let’s finalize these arrangements,” Emily says, checking her watch. “The first potential nanny will be here in less than two hours, and we need a solid plan in place.”
I pull my laptop from my bag while Emily spreads her files across the cleared section of the table. Watching her shift into full management mode, I’m reminded why the Wild Band has stayed at the top for so long. Emily Ryder doesn’t leave anything to chance.
“First priority,” Emily says, reviewing her notes, “is preparing a statement before speculation starts. Quinn?”
I clear my throat, trying to focus on my laptop instead of the way Vince is absently swaying with Jasmine. “We position this as a positive choice. Vince stepping up and embracing fatherhood. We emphasize their musical connection—how the baby quiets when he plays.”
“The fans will eat that up,” Emily nods. “Vince, we’ll need you to do one carefully controlled interview. Someone sympathetic, who’ll stick to approved questions.”
“Sarah Bailey,” I suggest. “She’s always been fair, and she’s a new mom herself.”
Vince looks up from Jasmine’s sleeping face. “No questions about the mother. That’s non-negotiable.”
“We’ll make that clear,” Emily assures him, her tone softening in the way it only does with family. “We can frame it as protecting everyone’s privacy while focusing on your relationship with Jasmine.”
“Speaking of relationships,” she continues, “we need to talk about touring.”
The question hangs in the air. Vince’s hold on Jasmine tightens slightly. “I don’t want to leave her. At least—not right now.”
“I understand,” Emily says firmly. “I’ll see if I can modify the schedule. Shorter runs, more breaks between dates. But that’s exactly why finding the right nanny is crucial.”
Emily digs into her bag, “The agency I hired has vetted all these candidates,” she states, sliding over a folder. “They all have experience with touring musicians or other high-profile families.” She checks her watch again. “I need to get back to Sam and Presley. Quinn, thanks for sitting in on the interviews. Can you text me how it goes?”
I nod, knowing Emily trusts my judgment, especially when it comes to social media background checks. “Of course.”
The first interview is a disaster. The woman takes one look at Vince’s tattoos and barely conceals her disapproval. The second candidate seems perfect on paper until she casually mentions she doesn’t believe in spoiling babies by picking them up when they cry.
Vince’s expression says it all. “Next.”
By the third interview, Jasmine is fussy again. The candidate—a former cruise ship nanny with impeccable references—keeps talking over her cries, raising her voice instead of acknowledging the baby’s distress. When Vince instinctively reaches for his guitar, she frowns.
“Music isn’t an appropriate sleep aid,” she lectures. “It creates dependency.”
I watch Vince’s jaw clench as I politely show the woman out.
“This isn’t working,” he sighs, settling back into his gentle strumming as Jasmine finally calms. “They’re all so... rigid. Clinical.”
“We’ll find someone,” I assure him, checking my phone to update Emily. “Someone who understands that a musician’s life isn’t conventional, and neither is your family.”
“There’s one more interview scheduled for today. A last-minute addition—she just moved here from London. Ten years’ experience with musical families.”
“At this point,” Vince mutters, “I’d hire Mary Poppins herself if she applied.”
“Mary Poppins would be a wonderful choice,” I quip with a grin.
The last candidate looks exactly like what you’d expect from a British nanny—neat cardigan, sensible shoes, and a warm smile that reaches her eyes. Grace Miller settles into the interview with quiet confidence, not even blinking when Jasmine starts to fuss.
“May I?” she asks, and something in her manner must reassure Vince because he carefully transfers Jasmine to her arms. Within moments, Grace is humming a lullaby, and Jasmine settles.
“You mentioned musical families,” I say, reviewing her file. “What was your last position?”
“Five years with the London Symphony Orchestra’s concertmaster. Brilliant violinist, terrible at keeping regular hours.” Her smile turns wistful. “I’d have stayed, but my mum’s been having health issues here in the States…” she pauses. “She’s got my sister here, but I wanted to be closer.”
Vince leans forward. “What about touring? The schedule can be brutal.”
“That’s actually my specialty. I’ve nannied during tours before—everything from classical orchestras to West End productions. I understand the unique challenges.” She gently shifts Jasmine to demonstrate a perfect burping position. “The agency said there’s a 90-day probation period, which works perfectly for me… after that...” she shrugs. “We could discuss a longer contract.”
I glance at Vince, seeing the same cautious hope I’m feeling. Grace is clearly qualified, and more importantly, she seems to get it. The music, the unconventional lifestyle, all of it.
“Thank you for coming in,” I say, standing. “The agency will be in touch very soon.”
Grace gives Jasmine one last gentle smile before gathering her things. There’s something reassuring about the way she moves—efficient but unhurried, like someone used to dealing with a chaotic pace but determined not to let it ruffle her.
Once Grace steps out, I fire off a quick text to Emily with my initial impressions while Vince paces and Jasmine back in his arms.
“She seems perfect,” he says finally. “But that timeline...”
“Ninety days gives us both a safety net,” I point out. “And she’s the first one who didn’t flinch when you mentioned touring. Plus, Jasmine clearly likes her.”
As if agreeing, Jasmine makes a happy, gurgling sound. Vince’s lips twitch. “Yeah, there is that.” He stops pacing, looking uncertain in a way that makes my heart squeeze. “What does Emily say?”
I check my phone as it chimes. “She says Grace’s references are stellar, especially about handling media attention and privacy concerns.” I hesitate, then add softly, “We can keep looking if you’re not sure.”
“No,” Vince says, surprising me with his firmness. “My gut says she’s right for us. At least for now.” He glances down at Jasmine. “And honestly, right now is all I can handle thinking about.”
He suddenly stops pacing, and his brow furrows. “Grace’s answers were good,” he says finally. “Really good. Like, suspiciously good. Is it crazy that it makes me nervous?”
I laugh, relief making me slightly giddy. “After the parade of disasters we’ve seen today? I’d be more worried if you weren’t a little suspicious of someone this perfect.”
Jasmine starts to fuss, and Vince automatically reaches for his guitar, settling into what I’m starting to think of as his daddy mode. The gentle melody seems to float through the room, and I find myself softly smiling as I watch them.
“Call the agency,” he says suddenly, his fingers never missing a note. “See if she can start tomorrow. Or today. Hell, see if she can move in tonight.”
I’m already dialing. “You’re sure?”
He looks down at Jasmine, who’s fighting sleep despite the music. “No. But Emily’s right—we need someone before the tour discussions start, and Grace—she seemed a good fit for my baby girl.”
He glances up at me, a hint of his old mischief breaking through the new-father anxiety. “Besides, if Grace turns out to be some crazed fan in disguise, I’m pretty sure you will have vetted her social media enough to see it coming.”
“That’s what you pay me for,” I say, and my heart does a little flip when he grins. The agency picks up, and I turn away before he can see my reaction. “Hi, yes, this is Quinn Donovan calling about Grace Miller...”