13. Thirteen
Thirteen
Quinn
“Miss Jasmine doesn’t like her mashed carrots much, does she?” Grace’s lilting British accent floats down the hallway as I let myself into Vince’s house. I follow the sound to find Vince hovering near the high chair while the new nanny expertly manages both feeding and clean-up.
“She’s just getting used to them. She’s mostly still on formula.” Vince says, hands twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to take over. “Maybe if we—“
“Sometimes babies just wake up feeling contrary,” Grace says cheerfully, somehow getting another spoonful into Jasmine’s mouth while simultaneously wiping orange goo from her chin. “Isn’t that right, love?”
Jasmine responds by blowing a raspberry, splattering carrot puree everywhere. Before Vince can lunge forward with a napkin, Grace has already handled it.
“Hi, Ms. Donovan,” she says, not missing a beat. “Mr. Savage mentioned you’d be coming by this morning. At least it’s no longer a press circus around here anymore.”
“Still, Ms. Donovan and Mr. Savage?” I mouth at Vince, who looks equally amused by the formal address.
“Just Vince is fine,” he tells her, still watching Jasmine like she might need his intervention at any moment. When she whimpers slightly, he takes a step forward.
“She’s just tired of sitting,” Grace says gently. “Why don’t you take her for a cuddle while I clean up? Then we can go back to the bottle.”
The relief on Vince’s face as he scoops up his daughter is almost comical. A month ago, he wouldn’t have known which end of a baby was up. Now he’s acting like being separated from her for ten minutes is torture.
It’s been exactly two weeks since the media storm hit, and despite our careful planning, my inbox still overflows with questions and interview requests. Every news outlet wants a piece of Vince Savage—the notorious bad boy who now has a baby daughter.
Thankfully, we got ahead of it. The carefully arranged interview with Sarah Bailey aired, and she kept her word. The segment focused entirely on Vince’s unexpected journey into fatherhood, leaving the absent mother a quiet shadow in the background rather than the centerpiece. Sarah had highlighted Vince’s genuine bond with Jasmine, showcasing gentle moments that had softened his rough public image.
“We should get started on some of the responses,” I say, setting up my laptop on the kitchen island.
“Right.” Vince doesn’t move from where he’s swaying with Jasmine. “Just let me—“
“I can take her, sir—Mr. Vince,” Grace offers. “Perhaps a walk on the beach? The fresh air might perk up her appetite.”
I watch fascinated as Vince wages an internal battle with his protective instincts. Grace must see it, too, because she adds, “She’ll be fine with me.”
He reluctantly transfers Jasmine to Grace’s capable arms. “Shall we go see if we can spot any seagulls?”
As soon as they’re out of earshot, I turn to Vince. “Grace is perfect.”
“She is,” he agrees. “Almost too perfect. If she starts singing A Spoonful of Sugar, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
I nudge his shoulder playfully. “How’s it going having a nanny?”
“I’m fine with it,” he says defensively, finally tearing his gaze away from them to fix those intense green eyes on me. “In fact, I’ll prove it.”
“Oh yeah?” I arch an eyebrow at him, trying not to smile.
“Have dinner with me tonight.” The words come out in a rush like he’s surprising even himself.
There’s something in his voice that makes my heart skip—something that suggests this might be more than just proving a point about Grace. But before I can overanalyze it, he adds quickly, “You know, to discuss the social media fall-out frenzy in more detail.”
The way he tacks on the work excuse at the end makes something flutter in my stomach. Because this sounds suspiciously like a date... but no, that would be crazy. Wouldn’t it?
“And you think you can make it an entire evening out without worrying about Jasmine?”
“Sure.” He leans against the counter, suddenly all casual confidence. “Now that I’ve got Mary Poppins out there, it seems a shame not to take advantage of some adult time.”
I’m suddenly breathless. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Vince?”
“Dinner.” His grin turns wicked. “For now. Though I’m open to... other activities.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Yes. I am.” He moves closer, deliberately invading my space. “Come on, Red. One dinner. This will be my practice run at leaving Jasmine with her practically perfect in every way, nanny.”
“How does Grace like the room you had set up for her?” I try to keep my voice professional despite his close proximity. “The tiny one with the ocean view?”
“Stop deflecting.” His fingers brush my arm as he reaches past me for his coffee. “Yes or no?”
I should say no. We’ve fallen into an easy friendship this past month, navigating the press that loves a scandal, and adding anything else would complicate everything. But with him looking at me like this, it’s hard to remember my strict no-dating-a-client rule.
“What exactly did you have in mind?”
His smile is pure sin. “Say yes and find out.”
The emerald silk cocktail dress had seemed like a good choice in my closet—elegant but not trying too hard. Now, catching Vince’s heated gaze as I slide into the booth, I’m hyper-aware of how the fabric clings to my curves. How the delicate gold earrings brush my neck when I move, drawing attention to my exposed shoulders and the scattering of freckles I usually keep hidden under blazers and blouses.
Vince, of course, looks sinfully good without even trying. His dark jeans and black button-down shirt are clearly designers. The sleeves rolled up to expose forearms decorated with tribal tattoos. The top few buttons are undone, offering a tempting glimpse of his tanned throat. He looks casual and devastatingly sexy.
He’s the perfect mix of rockstar edge and refined taste, and he is entirely too aware of the effect he has on women. The way he moves through the restaurant, all confident grace and casual power, turns heads at every table. But his eyes haven’t left me since we arrived.
“You know,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, “You’re usually dressed in pencil skirts and blouses.” His gaze travels appreciatively over my bare shoulders. “Nice to see you in something different for a change.”
“Some of us have to maintain a professional image,” I reply, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumps when he looks at me like that.
“Professional is overrated.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing a curl that’s escaped. “You should wear your hair down more often. It’s like living fire in this light.”
I catch his hand before he can continue his exploration. “Behave yourself, Mr. Savage.”
“Never.” But he grins and turns to order wine with surprising expertise.
Once we’re alone with our drinks, he leans back, studying me. “So, Quinn Donovan, you know plenty about me, yet, I know very little about you. How did you become a social media manager?”
“Would you believe it started with fanfiction?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “No way.”
“Yes.” I take a sip of wine. “I was seventeen, obsessed with this book series, and running their biggest fan page.”
“Tell me more.”
“The publisher noticed how much engagement my page got and offered me an internship. By college, I was managing social media accounts for several authors.”
“Pretty impressive.”
“Hardly. Just good timing and too much time on the internet.” I tilt my head. “What about you? How’d you end up playing with the Wild Band?”
His expression softens. “Reenie bought me an acoustic guitar after my parents died. Said I needed something to pour all that anger and grief into. I was eight. But when I turned fifteen, I picked up an electric guitar and loved the sound. I was hooked.” He traces the rim of his glass. “Cass and Sam had been playing together for a year before Nate and Luke came on board. Met all of them at a band competition. When I joined, the band was complete. The rest is history.”
“And several platinum albums.”
“Those came later.” He grins.
I clear my throat as I try to remember why we’re here. “I guess we need to talk about the fallout after the press got hold of the story. Hopefully, the interview helped soften the public opinion.”
“I think we were successful,” Vince says softly as he raises his glass of wine.
“You did it,” I correct him, meeting his gaze. “You’re the one who charmed Sarah and half the country along with her.”
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never thought I’d be known for midnight feedings instead of midnight scandals.”
“Welcome to your new normal,” I say, smiling gently. “You wear it well.”
He leans forward, studying me. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Quinn.”
His sincerity catches me off guard. I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how close he is and how his gaze searches mine for something deeper. “Well, the public loves seeing a reformed bad boy.”
“Reformed, huh?” His lips quirk into a playful smirk. “Careful, Red. You might ruin my reputation entirely.”
“I think Jasmine already did that,” I say softly. “She’s turned the rock world’s biggest rebel into a doting dad, and honestly? It’s adorable.”
He chuckles again, softer this time, his eyes darkening as he holds my gaze. “Only adorable?”
I fight a smile, my pulse quickening. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Fair enough,” he says quietly, straightening up, eyes still locked on mine. “But for the record, adorable’s not exactly the image I’m going for.”
The stories flow easily after that, through appetizers and entrees. He tells me about Wild Band’s early days, and I share tales of social media disasters I’ve managed. When our server clears the plates, I realize we’ve been talking for nearly two hours.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, swirling the wine in my glass.
“Anything.” His eyes catch mine over the rim of his glass.
“How are you really doing with all this?” I pause. “I mean, it was so sudden, and despite what you shared in the interview… how do you truly feel?”
His expression turns thoughtful. “Honestly? Some mornings, I wake up thinking I dreamed the whole thing. Then I hear Jasmine over the monitor and...” He shakes his head. “It’s crazy how fast she became such an important part of my world.”
He suddenly leans forward, purposely changing the mood. “Now, enough about me. Got anyone waiting at home?”
“Just Luna.”
“Luna?” His eyebrows lift with interest.
“My cat.” I laugh at his immediate grimace. “Not a fan of felines?”
“They’re evil,” he declares. “All that staring. And they knock things over on purpose.”
“Luna would never—okay, yes, she absolutely would. In fact, she broke a vase just yesterday.” I admit. “But she’s still perfect.”
“Like her owner?”
The heat in his gaze makes me flush. “I’m far from perfect.”
“Those freckles are pretty perfect.” His thumb brushes over the ones dusting my collarbone. “Like constellations across ivory skin.”
“Vince...”
“I like how they trail down your shoulder,” he continues, voice low. “Makes me wonder where else they go.”
The temperature in our corner seems to rise several degrees. “We should probably get the check.”
“Probably,” he agrees, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Unless...”
His phone buzzes with a text, and he hastily picks it up. It’s Grace sending a photo of Jasmine sleeping peacefully.
“She’s fine,” Vince says softly. “Grace has everything under control.”
“I know.” I look up at him. “But you want to get back anyway, don’t you?”
His smile is sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s sweet.” I signal for the check. “The bad boy’s gone soft.”
“Not entirely.” He helps me up, hand lingering on my waist. “I still have a reputation to maintain.”
“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow at him. “And how do you plan to do that?”
His answer is to pull me closer, right there in the restaurant. “I have some ideas.”
The kiss, when it comes, is nothing like I expected. Not the practiced seduction I’ve seen him use on others, but something slower, deeper, filled with promise and possibility.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless, and his green eyes are dark with desire.
“Still think I’ve gone completely soft?” he murmurs against my ear.
I’m saved from answering by our server appearing with the check. But as we leave the restaurant, all my carefully constructed rules about maintaining professional distance are crumbling. And I’m letting him demolish my walls with nothing more than a sexy smile and a touch.
The really terrifying part? I’m not sure I want to stop him.