28. Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Vince
The bright Florida sunshine floods through the glass sliding doors, casting my beachfront home in a glow. I’m sprawled on the living room floor, guitar abandoned beside me, watching in awe as Jasmine crawls toward me with a huge grin on her face. She babbles happily, looking extremely proud of herself.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, glancing at Quinn who’s perched on the couch with her laptop. “I mean, holy... cow. She’s actually doing it!”
Quinn’s smile is radiant as she sets aside her work. “I told you she was.” She slides down to join us on the area rug, her red hair falling in waves around her shoulders. “I know the video I sent doesn’t even come close to seeing the real thing.”
Jasmine looks up at the sound of Quinn’s voice, her tiny face breaking into a gummy smile that puts my sold-out stadium crowds to shame. Then she’s off again, her little body swaying as she makes her unsteady way toward the colorful stacking rings I’ve placed a few feet away.
“Yeah, I hate that I missed it,” I say, the wonder in my voice tinged with something else—regret, maybe, or that familiar fear that I’m failing at the most important role I’ve ever taken on. “I wanted to be with her when she crawled for the first time.”
Quinn’s hand finds mine. “You’re here now,” she says simply. “That’s what she’ll remember.”
As if to prove Quinn’s point, Jasmine abandons her quest for the rings and changes direction, heading straight for me. When she reaches my crossed legs, she tries to pull herself up, tiny fingers gripping my jeans, and lets out an excited babble, her green eyes—a perfect mirror of my own—fixed on me with unmistakable recognition.
The knot in my chest loosens. I’d had this secret fear during the tour that she’d forget me, or worse, stop caring that I existed. Ten days is a lifetime when you’re only seven months old. But here she is, grinning up at me like I’m her whole world.
“Hey there, little rockstar,” I murmur, lifting her into my arms. She immediately grabs for my hair—always her favorite target—and I let her, pain be damned. “Yeah, I missed you too.”
Quinn watches us, something soft and unreadable in her hazel eyes. “See? Unforgettable.”
I shoot her a grateful smile over Jasmine’s dark curls. Being back here with Quinn and Jasmine, only us three in the house while Grace takes the break I insisted she needed, feels unbelievably good—and right. I’m still startled at how easy this feels. This kind of domesticity was something I never thought I’d want, let alone crave.
Jasmine starts squirming, eager to show off her new mobility, and I set her back down. She immediately takes off toward the giant stuffed teddy bear in the corner, more confident with each movement.
“We’re going to have to baby-proof this place for real now,” I realize aloud. “Like, seriously, baby-proof. Not the half-assed job I did before.”
Quinn laughs. “Already ordered a few things we might need. They should arrive tomorrow.”
“We?” The word slips out before I can catch it.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. “I meant you. Sorry—force of habit since I’m practically living here now.”
“No, I like it,” I admit. “The ‘we’ thing. It’s nice.”
It’s more than nice, but I’m not ready to examine my emotions where Quinn is concerned—at least not yet. Life has been so chaotic lately. What with the tour, the club photos, and now that Daisy may be possibly reaching out—we’ve barely had time to process any of it.
My phone interrupts the moment, buzzing insistently on the coffee table. Michael Garret’s name flashes on the screen, and my stomach tightens. My lawyer only calls when there’s news, and given what I asked him to look into...
“I should take this,” I tell Quinn, already reaching for the phone.
She nods, understanding immediately. “I’ll keep an eye on the little explorer.”
I step out onto the deck, sliding the glass door closed behind me. The salt air hits my lungs as I answer. “Michael. What information do you have?”
“Good news, I think,” comes his measured, calm response. Michael’s not one for drama, which is part of why I keep him on retainer. That and the fact that he’s saved my ass from more than one legal disaster over the years. He’s primarily a criminal lawyer. “We found her.”
The world seems to still around me. “Daisy? You’re sure?”
“Daisy Turner, twenty-four, currently living near Lewis County, Tennessee. Working as a yoga instructor at some trendy studio close to The Farm.” He pauses. “The photos match the ones you sent, and the timeline fits.”
I grip the deck railing, steadying myself against the rush of emotions. Relief. Anxiety. A strange sort of vindication that I wasn’t imagining things in Nashville.
“What did you mean by a farm?”
“The Farm is a community that practices nonviolence, respects the earth, and does things like that. We believe that Daisy is involved with a man who grew up in The Farm environment.”
I nod, vaguely remembering Daisy as a free spirit. “So what’s next?”
“If everything goes as planned, we should be serving her with the papers for official termination of parental rights sometime over the next two weeks,” Michael explains. “Given that she left the child with you and explicitly stated in writing that she never wanted to be a mother, we have solid ground to stand on.”
“And if she doesn’t sign them?”
Michael’s sigh travels across the phone line. “Then we go to court. But Vince, I need to be frank with you about something.”
I brace myself. “Okay.”
“How serious are you about this Quinn woman?”
The question catches me off guard. Through the glass door, I can see Quinn on the floor with Jasmine, her head thrown back in laughter as my daughter, tired of crawling, rolls on her belly, trying to reach her pile of toys.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Because having a wife and mother would help your case,” Michael says bluntly. “Look, even if you don’t want to take that step, we should still be in pretty good shape. The courts generally favor biological parents, especially when the other parent has abandoned the child. But I like to stack the deck in my clients’ favor whenever possible.”
“And you think me being married would do that,” I finish for him.
“It wouldn’t hurt. Stability is a major factor in these cases. A full-time nanny doesn’t come close to you having a wife—a stable mother figure for Jasmine, in the court’s eyes.”
I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. “What about the fact that I’ve been Jasmine’s primary caregiver since Daisy left her on my doorstep? That I hired a round-the-clock nanny to be there when I’m working. That I rearranged my entire life and career around her? That doesn’t count for anything?”
“Of course, it counts,” Michael assures me. “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that those recent photos and headlines didn’t help our case.”
My blood runs cold. “The nightclub photos?”
“Yes, the ones taken after your Nashville performance. Those and the fact that you were on tour for ten days without your daughter.” His tone is carefully neutral. “I’m only stating the facts here, Vince. I’m just pointing out how it could be perceived.”
“I ensured Grace was with her the entire time,” I argue. “Jasmine was never alone.”
“I know that. But perception matters in family court.”
I stare out at the ocean, watching the waves crash against the shore. The rhythm has always soothed me, but not today. Not when everything I’ve built with Jasmine feels suddenly precarious.
“If you’re suggesting that I should propose to Quinn just to strengthen my case—“
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Michael cuts in. “I’m giving you all the facts. What you do with them is your business.”
I turn to look through the glass again. Quinn has Jasmine in her arms now, dancing around the living room to some music I can’t hear. My daughter’s face is alight with joy, her tiny hands patting Quinn’s cheeks.
Something warm and fierce expands in my chest at the sight. I love seeing my daughter with Quinn. But what I feel for Quinn isn’t because of her relationship with my daughter. It’s the way Quinn moves, the curve of her smile, the thousand small ways she’s woven herself into our lives. The way she bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating on a social media campaign. The way her eyes flash when she challenges me on something. And the way she sees through my bullshit but sticks around anyway.
I could hire a dozen nannies for Jasmine. But what I want from Quinn—what I need from her—has nothing to do with my daughter and everything to do with the way my heart races when she walks into a room. Not that I’m ready to put a name to that feeling quite yet. Not until things with Daisy are settled.
“If I decide to propose to Quinn,” I say finally, my voice firm, “it will be because I want to. Not for any other reason. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Michael responds, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I think you’ve come a long way, Vince, from the young man I used to represent.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“We’ll talk again soon,” he promises. “I’ll let you know once the papers are served.”
After we hang up, I stay on the deck for a few more minutes, trying to gather my thoughts. The possibility that Daisy might refuse to sign the papers sits like a stone in my gut. After months of silence, after abandoning Jasmine without a backward glance, would she really try to claim her now?
The glass door slides open behind me, and Quinn joins me at the railing. She wraps her arms around my waist from behind, her body warm against mine as she presses a kiss between my shoulder blades.
“Everything okay?” she asks. When I turn in her embrace, those perceptive hazel eyes search mine, reading me as effortlessly as sheet music.
“That was my lawyer,” I tell her, deciding on total honesty. My hands find their way to her hips, anchoring myself in her presence. “They found Daisy.”
Quinn goes still in my arms, her knuckles whitening as she grips the front of my t-shirt. “Oh.”
“They’re going to serve her with papers to terminate her parental rights officially,” I continue, studying how the ocean breeze plays with strands of her bright copper hair. “It should happen sometime over the next two weeks.”
“And if she signs them?” Her voice is steady, but I can feel the tension in her body pressed against mine.
“Then it’s done. Jasmine is officially, legally mine.”
Quinn nods slowly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she processes. “And if she doesn’t?”
I cup her face in my hands, needing her to see the truth in my eyes. “Then I fight. For Jasmine.”
“Of course you do,” she says softly, as if there was never any doubt. Her hands slide up my chest to rest on my shoulders. “We do.”
There’s that ‘we’ again, spoken so naturally, it makes my heart twist. Before I can respond, a wail comes from inside—Jasmine, likely frustrated by some limitation of her new mobility.
Quinn rises on her tiptoes to brush her lips against mine, a brief, sweet contact that somehow feels more intimate than our impassioned exchanges in the bedroom. “I’ll get her.”
She slips back inside, and I follow, watching as she scoops up my crying daughter with practiced ease. Jasmine immediately settles, her sobs turning to hiccups as Quinn murmurs soothing nonsense against her hair. The sight of them together—Quinn in those cutoff shorts that drive me crazy and my daughter cradled against her shoulder—stirs something primal and possessive in me.
Michael’s words echo in my mind: ‘A full-time nanny doesn’t come close to a wife, a mother for Jasmine.’
And suddenly, I’m imagining Quinn not just living here but being part of our lives—permanently. Not for Jasmine but as my... what? She’s already my girlfriend, but that seems too casual, too fleeting for what I feel when I look at her. How I feel when I wake up with her curled against me, her hair spilled across my pillow, and her breathing synchronized with mine.
It’s a dangerous thought—not because of what Michael suggested about legal advantages, but because it’s something real and lasting. Something I’ve never allowed myself to want before.
Something I’m not sure I have the right to ask for.
Jasmine stretches out her arms to me, her tear-stained face breaking into a smile that’s pure sunshine. She lets out a stream of happy gurgles, her tiny hands opening and closing in her universal sign that she wants to be held.
I take her from Quinn, breathing in her baby scent, and make a silent promise: No one will take her from me. Not Daisy, not the courts, no one.
But as Quinn’s hand lingers on my arm, her fingertips tracing a pattern across my skin, I realize I’m not just fighting for my daughter anymore.
I’m fighting for this—for the life we’re building together, for lazy mornings with Quinn’s leg thrown over mine, for the domestic rhythm we’ve fallen into without even trying. For the way she looks at me like I’m already the man I’m struggling to become.
And that terrifies me more than any custody battle. Because if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that the things you love are the ones that hurt the most when they’re ripped away.