Page 26 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

NINETEEN

I can still feel Juniper’s heartbeat echoing against my chest. Four pounds of pure perfection that redefined my entire existence in a single moment.

When they placed my newborn niece against my bare skin, something cracked open inside me—a chamber of my heart I didn’t know existed.

Her impossibly small fist gripping my finger with surprising strength, tiny razor-sharp nails digging into my skin.

The wisp of dark hair peeking from beneath her pink cap, looking so much like Peyton and Elle in their baby photos.

And my sister—exhausted, triumphant, transformed.

Now, as the plane touches down and the tour looms, I’m crossing worlds—from the sacred quiet of the NICU to the roar of thousands waiting for tonight’s show. Life before and after, with no transition but a flight and the memory of three heartbeats I’d die to protect.

My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing with photos from my family. Peyton in her hospital bed, holding Juniper. My dad with both grandsons nestled against his chest. My mom finally getting her bonding moments with her grandbabies.

I’m surprised when I get off the plane to find Canson sitting outside a black town car. I roll my eyes at the ostentatiousness but am also grateful for Elle thinking of sending him to pick me up.

“Mr. James,” he says as I approach.

“Canson, you know you can call me Quinn. Actually,” I say as I pause with my hand on the top of the door, “call me Uncle Quinn.”

Canson’s smile beams. “Congratulations.”

I slide into the backseat, the fine Italian leather encasing my body. I sigh and sink into the cushion.

“Boy? Girl?” He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Two boys, one girl,” I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “They’re tiny but perfect.” I show him a few pictures before he starts driving.

“Those are some lucky kids to have such a devoted uncle.”

I settle back in my seat, letting his words wash over me.

For the better part of a year, I’ve defined myself by what I’ve lost—Nola, the future I thought we’d have.

But now, I’m starting to see what I have—two sisters I adore, my parents, and a little brother, and what I’ve gained—two nephews and a niece, with Elle’s baby on the way.

My family has grown, and with it, my world has expanded.

By the time I reach the venue, soundcheck is long over. I text Dana to let her know I’ve arrived, and she responds with a thumbs-up emoji and a reminder that stage time is in ninety minutes.

Backstage is organized chaos—roadies rushing past with equipment, lighting techs adjusting last-minute cues, caterers setting up the post-show spread. I weave through it all, nodding at familiar faces, my guitar case bumping against my leg.

The door to our makeshift dressing room swings open, and four heads turn in unison.

“The prodigal rockstar returns!” Ajay announces, drumsticks spinning between his fingers.

“Just in time,” Keane adds, glancing at his watch.

Dana crosses the room and pulls me into a tight hug. “How are the babies?”

“Perfect,” I say, setting my guitar down. “They’re tiny.” I hold out my arm as a makeshift ruler for their length.

“And Peyton?” Hendrix asks, surprising me with his concern.

“Exhausted but so damn happy.”

“Names?” Dana demands.

“Maverick, Jace, and Juniper.”

“Solid rock star names,” Hendrix approves.

“How’s Elle?” Keane asks, looking past me.

“She’s good,” I say. “Although I think she’s restless and missing this side of her job.” I scan the room, not wanting to be obvious. “Everyone else good?”

“If by ‘everyone else’ you mean a certain lavender-haired vocalist,” Dana says with a smirk, “she’s warming up with her band. They’re on in twenty.”

I pretend to ignore her implication and unzip my guitar case. “I should probably get ready myself.”

“Uh-huh,” Dana says, clearly unconvinced. “Well, when you’re done pretending you weren’t asking about Justine, maybe you could look over the setlist. We made a few tweaks.”

She hands me a sheet of paper with notes scribbled in the margins. “I texted Elle about them, and she was fine with it.”

“Yeah, she said you’ve been sending her clips of the shows?”

Dana nods. “Chandler’s been videoing and editing. She sends everything to Paige for social media and I think Elle plans to use the footage for a video or two.”

“Awesome. I’m so glad Elle hired Chandler for this job. Can you send me some of the videos?”

“I’ll airdrop them to your phone later. Right now, I’m going to go support Plum,” Dana says.

I nod as I look at the list and work to memorize the changes. As the others leave, I hang back, strumming my guitar and going over the changes. The order makes sense—we’re opening with “Gravity” instead of “Run Wild, Burn Bright,” and “Flame & Ash” has moved to the encore. Both are good calls.

I’ve just finished tuning when I feel a presence in the doorway. I look up to find Justine leaning against the frame, dressed for her performance in black jeans, combat boots, and a vintage band tee knotted at her waist.

“Hey, stranger,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.

My heart does an unexpected flip. “Hey yourself.”

“The babies are beautiful,” she says, stepping into the room. “Even through blurry phone pictures.”

“They’re even better in person,” I tell her, setting my guitar aside. “Wait till you see them.”

The words slip out before I realize their implication—that she’ll meet my family, be part of my life in that way. But Justine doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t mind.

“How’s Peyton?”

“Strong. Tired. A little overwhelmed, but my mom and Josie are there, so she’s in good hands.”

Justine sits beside me on the worn sofa, close enough that our knees touch. “Did you get any sleep?”

“A few hours on the plane. I’ll crash tonight after the show.”

“You could have stayed longer,” she says softly. “No one would have blamed you.”

I shrug. “We have commitments. Besides, I’ll see them soon enough.”

“Quinn James, responsible rock star.” Her tone is light, teasing.

“I have my moments.”

Before she can respond, a stagehand appears. “Five minutes, Justine.”

She stands, smoothing her shirt. “Duty calls.”

“Break a leg out there,” I tell her. “I’ll be watching.”

A smile spreads across her face, bright and genuine. “You’d better be. I added something new to the set. See if you can spot it.”

With that cryptic statement, she’s gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of her perfume—something light and floral with an undertone of vanilla.

I make my way to the side of the stage, finding a spot where I can see the show without being seen by the crowd. As promised, I watch Plum’s entire set.

Justine is, as always, captivating. There’s an energy to her performance tonight that feels different, freer, more confident.

When they reach their third song, I realize what’s new.

She’s incorporated a subtle guitar riff that mirrors one from our napkin song.

It’s not obvious enough that anyone else would notice, but to me, it’s unmistakable.

It’s our melody, woven into her band’s song.

A private message meant only for me.

When they finish their set to thunderous applause, Justine doesn’t look to her bandmates or the crowd for validation. Her eyes find mine in the shadows offstage, and she gives me a small, private smile.

Forty minutes later, I’m standing center stage, strumming the opening chords of “Gravity” as the crowd roars. The energy is electric, pulsing through the venue like a living thing.

I lean into the mic, my voice finding its resonance. “Are you ready?”

The response is deafening.

We launch into the set, and everything falls away: the exhaustion, the whirlwind of emotions from the past few days, the lingering questions about what comes next. There’s only the music, the crowd, and this perfect moment of connection.

During “Come Undone,” Justine joins me onstage, and the chemistry between us is undeniable. Our voices blend seamlessly, finding harmonies that feel like they’ve always existed. When the song ends, the crowd demands an encore before we’ve even left the stage.

“I think they liked it,” Justine whispers as we take our bow.

“What’s not to like?” I reply, and she laughs, the sound lost in the roar of the audience.

After the encore, I head straight for the showers. There’s nothing quite like washing away the sweat and adrenaline of a show, letting the hot water soothe tired muscles.

I take longer than usual, replaying moments from the performance in my mind: the way Justine looked at me during our duet, the energy of the crowd during the new arrangement of “Fading Ink,” the perfect harmony we found in the encore.

When I finally emerge from the shower stall, a towel wrapped around my waist, I hear a soft knock on the door.

“Just a sec,” I call, quickly drying off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. I don’t bother with a shirt, assuming it’s Dana or Keane coming to discuss the show.

I open the door to find Justine standing there, still in her performance clothes but with her makeup freshly removed, her lavender hair damp at the edges.

“Hey,” she says, her eyes briefly dropping to my bare chest before returning to my face. “I thought?—”

“Let me grab a shirt—” I say, stepping back to let her in.

“You don’t have to,” she says quickly, then blushes. “I mean, it’s your dressing room. You should be comfortable. I bought you this.” Justine holds out a bottle of water.

I hesitate, then let the door close behind her. “Thank you.”

She hands me a plastic bottle, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “You were amazing tonight. The whole band was, but especially you.”

“Says the woman who had the crowd eating out of her hand,” I counter, taking a sip. The ice-cold water is soothing. “The new riff was inspired.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “You caught that?”

“Of course I did. It’s our song.”

“Part of it, anyway.” Justine moves to the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. “I’ve been playing around with the arrangement.”

I lean against the makeup counter, careful to keep some distance between us. “It sounded great.”

“It would sound better with you,” she says softly.

The implication hangs in the air, stretching between us like a thread waiting to be pulled.

“Justine—”

“I’ve been thinking,” she interrupts, “about that day in Boston. Outside my hotel room.”

My pulse quickens. “What about it?”

“About what might have happened if Wynonna and Priscilla hadn’t shown up.” Her gaze is steady, unflinching. “About what I wanted to happen.”

I set the water down, suddenly very aware of my state of undress. “And what was that?”

She stands, closing the distance between us in three small steps. “I think you know.”

She’s right. I do know. I’ve thought about it too . . . about the almost-kiss, about the way her eyes had fluttered closed, about how close we’d been to crossing a line we couldn’t uncross.

“We work together,” I say, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

“Is that all this is?” she challenges. “Work?”

I shake my head. “No. But it’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Her hand reaches up, hesitating for a moment before coming to rest on my chest, directly over my heart. I wonder if she can feel it racing beneath her palm.

“Justine,” I whisper, my voice rough. “I’m still figuring things out. After Nola?—”

“I know,” she says gently. “I’m not asking for promises, Quinn. I’m just asking for right now.”

Right now.

The simplicity of it is disarming. Not forever, not the whole complicated future. Just this moment, this connection.

“What exactly are you asking for?” I need to hear her say it.

Her eyes meet mine, steady and clear. “I’m asking you to kiss me. If you want to.”

Her words are barely audible, a whispered permission that sends electricity down my spine.

Without overthinking it, I reach up, cupping her face in my hands. Her skin is soft beneath my calloused fingers. I trace the line of her cheekbone with my thumb, watching her eyes darken.

“Are you sure?” I ask, giving her one last chance to back away.

In answer, she rises on her toes, closing the final inches between us. Her lips brush against mine, feather-light and questioning.

It’s a spark hitting dry kindling.

My hands slide into her hair, angling her face up to deepen the kiss. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, her fingers splaying across my bare chest before curling into my shoulders.

The kiss is nothing like I expected. It’s not tentative or sweet. It’s hungry, insistent. Like we’ve both been holding back too long.

Justine presses closer, her body warm against mine as I back her gently against the wall. Her hands roam over my shoulders, down my arms, mapping the contours of muscle and bone.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her lips are slightly swollen, her pupils dilated, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“Wow,” she whispers, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah,” I agree, resting my forehead against hers. “Wow.”

Her hands slide up to my neck, fingers threading through my hair. “So, that happened.”

I laugh softly. “It definitely did.”

“Any regrets?” Her voice is light, but I catch the undercurrent of vulnerability.

In response, I kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her. “None,” I murmur against her lips.

Justine smiles against my mouth. “Good. Because I’d really like to do that again.”

“Just kissing?” I tease, nipping at her lower lip.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting mine. “For now. I’m not in any rush, Quinn.”

The simplicity of her honesty is refreshing. No games, no hidden agendas. Just Justine, with her purple-tinged eyes and soft smile, offering something real.

“Neither am I,” I tell her, meaning it. “This—whatever it is—I want to do it right.”

“Whatever it is,” she echoes, tracing my jawline with her finger. “I like the sound of that.”

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, breaking the moment. With a sigh, she checks the screen. “That’s Priscilla. Her and Wynonna are waiting for me. We’re going out to a club.”

I step back, giving her space. “You should go.”

Justine nods but makes no move toward the door. Instead, she rises on her toes once more, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my lips.

“Goodnight, Quinn,” she whispers.

“Goodnight, Justine.”

She slips out the door, leaving me standing alone in the dressing room, the taste of her still on my lips and the certainty that everything has changed. I turn and slide down the wall, pulling my knees toward my chest.

I like her when I shouldn’t.

She likes me when she shouldn’t.

This could be something amazing, or it could destroy both of us.

I guess I have to ask myself if she’s worth it, and if she is, am I ready?