2. Two
Two
Vince
The front door clicks shut behind Quinn Donovan, but her scent—something light and citrusy—lingers in my living room, along with the echo of her parting shot about shirtless selfies.
I laugh, running a hand through my hair. My new social media manager has bite. And curves that her conservative pencil skirt and blouse couldn’t quite hide.
My workout playlist blasts through the speakers as I hit the home gym. Between sets of bench presses, my mind keeps drifting to those striking hazel eyes. The way they’d widened when she first saw me, then narrowed with determination as she’d started deleting posts—the fiery blush that crept across her cheeks when she’d encountered my overnight guests.
There was a scattering of freckles across her nose. They stood out against her pale, porcelain skin. I find myself wondering where else her skin might be dusted with freckles...
“Focus, jackass,” I mutter, adding more weight to the bar. But even as I push through another set, I’m thinking about that flash of fire in her eyes when she’d called my social media presence a disaster. Wonder if that temper matches her hair? It might be fun to find out.
By the time I hit the shower, I’ve worked up a good sweat but accomplished little in terms of getting Quinn Donovan out of my head. The hot water pounds against my shoulders as I think about tomorrow morning’s meeting. 9 AM. Bloody hell. I haven’t seen 9 AM since... well, since the last time Emily arranged some interview that ended up a publicity nightmare.
Speaking of publicity nightmares... I grab my phone, tempted to scroll through what’s left of my social media after Hurricane Quinn blew through—but I don’t. She wasn’t wrong—it is a mess. But posting about my life, sharing every moment with strangers? That’s not why I picked up an electric guitar at fifteen. Not why I spent years playing dive bars and living off ramen noodles.
Still. there’s something about the way she took control, the quiet confidence beneath that professional exterior—I’m looking forward to tomorrow morning. Even if I hate every second of whatever social media boot camp she has planned.
I check the time. Shit. Band practice is at 2, and I still need to grab my gear. But as I dress, I catch myself grinning. Maybe mornings won’t be so bad if they come with a side of ruffling Quinn Donovan’s perfectly arranged feathers.
I’m late to practice, but that’s nothing new. What is new is Emily Ryder’s satisfied smirk when I walk into our rehearsal space. She’s perched on Sam’s bass amp. “So,” Emily drawls, “I take it you met Quinn this morning?”
“You could have warned me.” I start unpacking my Gibson, trying not to think about exactly what Quinn walked in on. Or how much I enjoyed watching her try to maintain her professional composure.
“What would be the fun in that?” Emily’s grin widens. “Besides, if I’d told you, you’d have made yourself scarce.”
“Like he did for the last three social media consultants?” Cass chimes in from where he’s adjusting his mic stand. “How long did the last one stick around? Two hours?”
“One.” Sam wraps an arm around his wife’s waist. “Remember? She quit after Vince posted that video of—“
“We don’t talk about that video,” I interrupt, though I can’t help grinning. The memory of Quinn methodically deleting my greatest social media hits suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. “Anyway, this one’s different.”
“Different, how?” Luke looks up from his keyboard. “Besides the fact that she actually got past your front door?”
I plug in my guitar, buying time. How to explain Quinn Donovan? The way she’d walked into chaos this morning and carved out order with nothing but a tablet, laptop, and sheer force of will. The fierce gleam in those hazel eyes when she’d started laying down the law.
“She’s...” I strum a few chords, checking my tuning. “Competent.”
“Competent?” Nate twirls a drumstick. “That the best you can do? Emily’s been singing her praises for weeks now.”
“That’s because Quinn’s brilliant at what she does,” Emily says. “You should see what she did for Lacey’s social media presence last year.”
Nate nods. “Lacey swears by her. Says Quinn turned her Instagram from basic celebrity selfies into this whole lifestyle movie star brand thing.”
Great. Just what I need—my social media being turned into a ‘lifestyle brand thing.’ I must have made a face because Emily sighs.
“Look, Vince, your fans want to connect with you. They want to see beyond the guy who shreds guitar solos and poses for magazine covers. Quinn can help you do that without...”
“Without hosting impromptu live streams from random hot tubs?” suggests Luke.
“Or challenging other guitarists to digital duels?” Cass grins. “Though that one with Jimmy Page’s nephew was pretty epic.”
“You’re all hilarious.” I launch into the opening riff of our newest single, drowning out their laughter. “Can we actually practice now?”
We fall into our usual rhythm, the familiar push and pull of five guys who’ve played together so long we can anticipate each other’s moves. But between songs, my mind keeps drifting to tomorrow morning to Quinn’s promised social media boot camp.
“Hey, Vince!” Sam’s voice snaps me back. “You missed your cue, man.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to focus. “Let’s take it from the top.”
“Maybe we should wrap early,” Emily suggests, checking her phone. “We’ve got to pick up Presley from her play date, and clearly, someone’s head isn’t in the game.”
“My head’s fine.”
“Sure it is.” Cass exchanges knowing looks with the others. “It’s just coincidentally floating somewhere around your new social media manager’s office.”
“She doesn’t have an office,” I mutter, then immediately regret giving them more ammunition.
The guys crack up, and even Emily tries to hide her smile.
“Just remember,” Emily states as we start packing up, “Quinn’s a professional. The best in the business. So, don’t go getting any ideas.”
“What kind of ideas would those be?” I ask innocently, but Emily just rolls her eyes.
“The kind that ends up trending on Twitter for all the wrong reasons.” She states with a stern look. “9 AM tomorrow, Vince. Don’t make me send Sam to drag you out of bed.”
“I’ll be ready.” I carefully close my Gibson, already planning tomorrow’s confrontation. Something that’ll make Quinn’s professional facade crack just a little. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Back home, I gather up the courage to see what’s left of my social media presence. I’m not surprised to see that Quinn’s deletions left smoking craters across my timeline, but I have to admit—what remains actually looks professional—like someone who has their shit together.
My phone buzzes with a notification.
@QuinnDonovan has followed you.
Interesting. I click through to her profile, expecting the usual sterile business headshot and corporate buzzwords. Instead, I find myself staring at a candid shot of her caught mid-laugh, red hair gleaming in the sunlight. Her profile is a masterclass in personal branding—professional but authentic. Exactly what she probably has planned for me.
Another notification pops up—a direct message.
@QuinnDonovan: Just a reminder—no posts without approval. And yes, that includes Instagram Stories at 2 AM.
I grin at my phone. @VinceSavage: Reading my mind already, Red?
Her response is immediate. @QuinnDonovan: The name’s Quinn. And I’ve read your posts—obviously, someone needs to.
@VinceSavage: You wound me. Some of those posts were pure genius.
@ QuinnDonovan: The only pure thing about them was pure disaster—9 AM. Don’t be late.
Before I can reply, she’s offline. I toss my phone aside, still smiling. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.
The rest of the night, I catch myself checking my notifications, hoping to see her name pop up again. It doesn’t. But as I’m getting ready for bed, I notice she’s already started work on my profile. My bio’s been updated, and my profile picture changed to a recent shoot photo instead of the tequila-inspired selfie from last month.
Small changes. Professional ones. But they feel like the first shots fired in what’s about to become a very entertaining war.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Alessandra, a Victoria’s Secret model I met at some award show last month. She’s in town for a photo shoot and wants to meet for dinner.
Usually, I’d jump at the chance. Alessandra’s gorgeous, uncomplicated, and knows the drill—no strings, no expectations, just mutual benefit from being seen together. But tonight, I hesitate.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, texting back a quick agreement. Better than sitting here refreshing my notifications like some teenager.
Two hours later, I arrive. The restaurant she chose is the kind of place where the menu doesn’t list prices, and the wine list is longer than my arm. Alessandra’s is as stunning as I remember—all long limbs and perfect features. But twenty minutes into dinner, I find myself counting how many times she’s checked her reflection in her phone.
Seventeen.
“And then the photographer actually suggested I try smiling with my teeth showing.” She rolls her eyes, pausing to take a perfectly arranged photo of her barely touched salad. “As if I haven’t been modeling for seven years. I know my best angles.”
“Tragic,” I manage, taking a long pull of my scotch. When did dinner conversation become such a chore?
“I know, right?” She taps away on her phone, probably posting that salad photo with some inspirational quote about living your best life. “Oh! Did you see my latest campaign dropped today? Ten million impressions in the first hour.”
Quinn’s voice echoes in my head. Social media isn’t about numbers—it’s about connection.
“Speaking of impressions,” Alessandra continues, “we should totally get a photo together. My followers would love it.”
And there it is. The real reason for this dinner. Not that I can blame her—isn’t this exactly what I do? Show up and look appealing just to leverage each other’s fame?
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “Why not?”
She practically leaps from her chair, sliding into the spot beside me, and leans in close. Her floral perfume is overwhelming, nothing like Quinn’s subtle citrus scent. Wait—why am I even making that comparison?
“Perfect!” Alessandra holds up her phone, angling for the best lighting. “Now look at me like you’re mesmerized.”
I try, but all I can think about is Quinn’s unimpressed expression this morning when she was deleting similar photos from my profile. The way she’d just handled everything with such calm efficiency, like my rockstar status, meant nothing to her.
“You’re not looking at me right,” Alessandra pouts.
“Sorry.” I force a smile, playing my part, and put my arm around her. The camera clicks.
“Got it!” She immediately starts editing, adding filters and effects. “This is going to break the internet. Should I tag you? Oh wait—your profile’s different.” She frowns at her phone. “Did you hire someone? These new posts are so boring.”
“Professional,” I correct, the word feeling strange in my mouth. “My new social media manager started today.”
“Ugh, managers.” She wrinkles her nose. “They always want to clean up your image. Make everything so corporate. But followers want real, you know? Like this morning when I posted about my juice cleanse—forty thousand likes in ten minutes.”
I think about Quinn wanting to rebuild my online presence. About the way she’d looked right through my carelessly snapped photos and seen they were a mess. Just random pictures that didn’t mean anything. Just a means to an end. I remember the determination in her eyes. There was nothing fake about her approach—just honest, direct purpose.
“Sometimes clean isn’t so bad,” I say, surprising myself.
Alessandra stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Are you feeling okay? The Vince Savage I met last month would never say that.”
Maybe that’s the point. She doesn’t know the real me, and I doubt that she wants to.
The rest of dinner drags—every minute, an exercise in nodding at the right moments while my mind wanders to tomorrow morning. By the time I get home, I’m actually looking forward to my 9 AM appointment.
I set an alarm for the first time in years.
Quinn Donovan wants professional? Fine. Let’s see how her professional facade holds up when I really start playing her game.
Game on, Quinn Donovan.
Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.