15. Fifteen
Fifteen
Quinn
The private jet gleams in the early morning sun as I watch Vince say goodbye to Jasmine. My heart twists at the sight of the notorious bad boy rockstar pressing gentle kisses to his daughter’s tear-stained cheeks while Grace tries to console them both.
“It’s only a week,” I hear him murmur, but his voice cracks. “Daddy will be back before you know it, baby girl.”
I should look away. This moment isn’t meant for me, but I can’t tear my eyes from the scene. The tough guy who once trashed hotel rooms on three continents is fighting back emotion as he hands his daughter to Grace.
Vince blows out a heavy breath, giving me a helpless look. “I thought I had everything under control. But now, all I can think about is how crazy it is to leave Jasmine for a whole week. I mean, who does that?”
“People with jobs,” I say lightly, though my chest tightens a little at the vulnerability in his expression. “She’ll be fine. Grace is amazing, and you know I’ll stop by to check in.”
“You will?” He turns to me, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes makes my chest ache.
“I promise.”
Vince nods slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. He looks devastatingly handsome even when he’s sleep-deprived and anxious. It’s unfair, really.
“Thanks, Quinn. You’ve been incredible through all this.”
“It’s my job.” The words taste false on my tongue, too quick, too light, they linger awkwardly in the air between us. His eyes soften as he steps closer, fingertips brushing lightly against my arm.
“You and I both know it’s a lot more than that,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
When he pulls me into a quick hug, I tell myself the shiver that runs through me is from the morning chill. Not from the way he lingers a second too long or how his cologne wraps around me like a promise.
“Thanks, Red.” His breath fans warm against my ear. “For being here.”
I step back before I do something stupid like beg him not to go. “Just try not to post any midnight selfies without running them by me first.”
“No promises.” His trademark smirk is back, but his eyes keep drifting to Jasmine. “Especially after a few drinks.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” I pull out my phone. “Now go before your band members wonder what’s taking you so long and realize fatherhood has made you sentimental.”
“Too late.” He winks, then turns for one last look at his daughter. “Be good for Grace, Jazzy. Daddy loves you.”
I watch him board the plane, acting like I don’t see him stop and take one last lingering look in our direction. As he turns to enter the plane, I snap a picture with my phone.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve managed rockstars’ social media accounts for years. Seen dozens of tours off. This shouldn’t feel different just because...
Just because what? Because Vince kissed me twice? Because his daughter’s toothless grin makes my heart flip? Because somewhere between ‘strictly professional’ and watching him board that plane, I’ve completely lost control of this situation?
Back in my apartment, Luna winds around my ankles as I try to focus on work. My laptop screen blurs as I stare at Vince’s latest Instagram post—the one I just finished posting for him. It’s a subtle black and white shot of him boarding the plane, guitar case in hand. The comments are already flooding in, fans swooning over his ‘brooding artist’ vibe.
If they only knew he’d spent ten minutes beforehand playing peek-a-boo with a seven-month-old. That the ‘brooding artist’ practically had tears in his eyes saying goodbye to his daughter.
My phone chimes, vibrating against my desk. “Landed. Already missing all my girls.”
All my girls.
“Focus, Quinn,” I mutter, closing the message. My other clients deserve attention, and I have deadlines piling up. I settle at my desk, laptop open, determined to be productive.
Two cups of coffee later, I’ve drafted exactly two tweets for a pop star’s upcoming album release. My usual sharp instincts for social media strategy feel dulled, replaced by memories of baby giggles and a certain rockstar’s sexy smile.
“Get it together,” I mutter, earning a stare from Luna.
I switch to handling a boy band’s PR crisis—usually the kind of challenge I live for. But halfway through posting an online statement about their lead singer’s controversial comments, I find myself scrolling through my photos from a few days ago. There’s one of Vince holding Jasmine as she tries to reach for the giant teddy bear as if she could possibly hold it.
I close my email and even turn my phone face-down. I’ve built my career on being unflappable, professional, and focused. The woman who can handle any crisis, who never lets emotions cloud her judgment.
So why can’t I stop thinking about an adorably drooling seven-month-old and her tattooed, irresistible father?
I prop my head in my hand. This is going to be the longest week ever. As much as I try to focus on my to-do list, my thoughts keep wandering back to Vince—how his laughter sounds, rich and genuine, or how his eyes soften when he looks at Jasmine.
God, I’m a mess.
My cat begins to twine around my ankles as I lean back in my chair.
“You’re not so bad, Luna,” I murmur, lifting the fluffy ball of mischief into my arms. “But I’m warning you right now—this apartment is going to feel a little lonely this week, so cut me some slack, okay?”
She purrs softly, rubbing her face against my chin, her warmth comforting. But even as I sink further into my chair, stroking her fur, I can’t shake the feeling of emptiness.
My apartment feels too quiet, too barren. No baby giggles. No deep laughter and no arrogant smirks. No messy toys scattered across the floor. When did that chaos become something I crave? Why is my work not enough anymore?
As I continue to stroke Luna, she looks up at me with those knowing yellow eyes like she’s trying to tell me something. Probably that I’m fooling exactly no one, least of all myself.
I close my laptop, admitting defeat. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll remember how to be the Quinn Donovan, who built a successful social media manager business from scratch and who never mixed business with pleasure.
Sleep eludes me, and when it finally comes, my dreams are filled with images of dark hair, sexy smiles, and intense green eyes.
Morning arrives too soon. I drag myself to my desk, determined to focus on something—anything—besides thoughts of Vince and Jasmine.
Three hours later, I’ve accomplished exactly nothing. Every time I try to work on another artist’s campaign, my mind drifts to Vince. Is he at soundcheck? Will he remember to turn off his phone during tonight’s performance? Is Jasmine missing him as much as...
Luna knocks my water glass off the desk, startling me from my thoughts.
“Really?” I glare at my unrepentant cat. “Was that necessary?”
She blinks at me innocently, then starts grooming herself like she didn’t just deliberately sabotage my workspace.
“Fine.” I grab my keys. “I need to run errands anyway.”
Except somehow, my errands take me straight to Vince’s house. Grace answers my knock with a fond smile.
“I wondered how long it would take,” she says, stepping aside to let me in. “Jasmine’s just waking from her nap.”
The moment I walk into the nursery, Jasmine’s whole face lights up. She attempts to pull herself up in her crib, but she doesn’t quite make it, falling back down on her padded bottom. I hurry forward.
“Hey, sweetie.” I lift her up, breathing in that addictive baby smell. “Missing your daddy?”
She babbles something that might be an agreement, patting my face with sticky hands. When did this happen? When did this tiny human burrow so deep under my skin?
“He’s missing you too,” I tell her, settling into the rocker. “So much that he’s probably driving his friends crazy talking about you.”
Jasmine squirms against me. “Want to practice crawling, sweetie?” I bend over to set Jasmine on her tummy on the play mat. She pushes up on her arms, rocking back and forth on her hands and knees, frustrated determination written across her face. According to Grace, she’s been doing this pre-crawling rock for days now. “That’s it, almost there.”
“She’s been at it all morning,” Grace says from the doorway. “Gets up on those knees and rocks like she’s ready to take off, then face-plants right into her elephant toy. But she keeps trying.”
I laugh, as right then, Jasmine does exactly that. It doesn’t bother her at all, as she giggles.
“Tea?” Grace offers. “I just put the kettle on.”
Ten minutes later, I’m cradling a cup of Earl Grey while Jasmine demolishes a teething biscuit in her high chair. Crumbs scatter everywhere, but her triumphant grin is worth the mess.
“Mr. Vince is different with his daughter, isn’t he?” Grace asks quietly. “Not what everyone was expecting?”
“Yes. Completely different.” I watch Jasmine gum another biscuit. “Some in the media would prefer more of the old Vince—the wild one who’d set things on fire—give them something for their dramatic headlines. But that’s not who he is anymore.”
“No, it’s not.” Grace’s tone is carefully neutral. “And what do you think of who he is now?”
I focus on my tea, avoiding her penetrating gaze. “I think... he’s an amazing father.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Before I can respond, Jasmine lets out a squeal and throws her sippy cup. I grab it mid-air—a skill I didn’t know I needed until recently.
“Nice save.” Grace smiles. “You’re getting quite good at that.”
“At catching flying objects or avoiding uncomfortable conversations?”
“Both, dear.”
We spend another hour playing with Jasmine and blocks, reading her favorite books (despite her attempts to grab the pages), and watching her pre-crawl rocking. Each moment feels simultaneously peaceful and dangerous—like I’m walking deeper into quicksand but can’t make myself turn back.
By the time I leave, my shirt is covered in baby drool, and my heart feels full. The drive home is a blur of conflicting emotions. Luna greets me at the door with her usual disdain for my extended absence.
“Don’t give me that look,” I tell her, changing into my oldest pair of pajamas. “I had important business to attend to.”
She meows skeptically.
I’m halfway through a sad excuse for dinner, microwaved leftover pizza when my phone lights up. It’s a backstage photo of Vince, his hair a mess, sweat still running down his face, his shirt clinging to his muscles in ways that I shouldn’t be noticing.
“Killed it tonight. Wish you could have seen it.”
Before I can reply, another text: “Did you see Jazz today?”
“Yes. We had a big day. She’s getting closer to crawling.”
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again. “Hate missing it. Tell me everything?”
I curl up on my couch, Luna deigning to settle beside me and type out every detail of the day— Jasmine’s attempts at crawling, her battle with the teething biscuit, the blocks. I pause before adding, “She misses you. We all do.”
This time, the three dots dance for what feels like forever.
“Video call?”
My heart jumps. I glance at my reflection in the dark TV screen—messy bun, no makeup, looking nothing like the polished professional I’m supposed to be. “I’m not exactly camera-ready.”
“Quinn. Please?”
Something in those two words undoes me. I hit accept, and suddenly, his face fills my screen.
“Hi,” he says quietly. In the dim light of wherever he is, his eyes look darker, more intense—a dangerous combination with that post-show energy still radiating off him.
“Hi yourself, rockstar.” I aim for teasing, but my voice comes out too soft, too intimate for this time of night.
We talk for almost an hour—about the show, about Jasmine, about nothing at all. It feels intimate in a way it shouldn’t. Him in some green room across the country, and me curled up on my couch in my PJs. When he finally has to go, neither of us seems to want to hang up first.
“Quinn?” His voice is rough with fatigue.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for being there. For her. For...” He hesitates, and for a moment, I think he might say something more. Something that would cross the line we’re both pretending still exists. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair. “Just... thanks.”
After we disconnect, I sit in the dark, Luna purring beside me, remembering how gruff his voice sounded when he said, “Thanks for being there…” and heat floods my cheeks. This is dangerous territory. I’m supposed to be managing his social media, not…
Not what? Falling for him? For his daughter?
I picture again Jasmine’s sweet smile and Vince’s intense green eyes, and reality hits me like a freight train.
Too late.
I’m already in way too deep.