3. Three
Three
Quinn
9 AM sharp, and I’m already regretting my choice of heels as I climb the steps to Vince’s beach house. My laptop bag weighs heavily on my shoulder, loaded with my contract and content calendars that I suspect will face fierce resistance.
The door swings open before I can knock. Vince leans against the frame, and damn him, he’s clearly ready for me. Faded jeans that fit like sin, a black V-neck that shows just enough of his tattoos to be distracting, and that signature smirk that’s graced a dozen magazine covers.
“You’re on time,” I say, surprised.
“Don’t sound so shocked.” He steps back to let me in. “I can follow directions. When properly motivated.”
The house is transformed from yesterday’s chaos. No empty bottles, no evidence of overnight guests, and—is that coffee I smell?
“You cleaned.” I set my laptop on his now-spotless dining table.
“I have a housekeeper.” He hands me a steaming mug. “Cream or sugar?”
I blink at him. “Uh… no, thank you. This is perfect.”
He settles into the chair across from me, and I notice he adds a spoonful of sugar to his cup.
“So, what’s the plan? Going to teach me the proper way to hashtag?”
“Actually,” I open my laptop, ignoring his sarcasm, “I thought we’d start with your brand identity.”
“My what?”
“Who you are online versus who you actually are.” I turn the screen toward him. “Right now, your social media portrays you as—“
“A fun-loving, sexy, incredibly talented lead guitarist?”
I fight a smile. “I was going to say ‘inconsistent.’ Your fans don’t know if they’re getting drunk guitar tutorials, blurry photos, or radio silence.”
“Drunk guitar tutorials?” His grin widens. “Been studying my posts pretty carefully, haven’t you?”
“I study everything carefully. It’s my job.” I pull up his analytics. “See these engagement patterns? They spike when you post actual content about your music, but—“
“Define actual content.”
“Videos of you playing. Stories about writing sessions. Behind-the-scenes moments that show the real you.” I meet his eyes. “Not whatever persona you think your followers want.”
He leans forward, and suddenly, the space between us feels very small. “What makes you think it’s a persona?”
“Because I’ve spent the last week studying everything you’ve ever posted. And the real moments? They’re buried under all the bluster.” I swipe through examples. “Like this post about helping Nate at Family First, where you taught a boy how to hold his pick properly. Or this thread about your first guitar. That’s the sort of content your true fans want.”
Something shifts in his expression. “You did your research.”
“Of course I did. Though your... nocturnal activities made it challenging to find the genuine stuff.” I scroll through his feed. “For instance, last month alone, you posted twenty-two photos with different women.”
“Keeping count?” His eyebrow lifts suggestively. “I didn’t realize you were so interested in my love life.”
“Your hookups aren’t the issue.” I meet his gaze steadily. “The problem is they’re drowning out your actual talent. You’re one of the best guitarists in modern rock, but your social media makes you look like—“
“A manwhore?” He grins, clearly unbothered by the implication.
“More like a reality TV star.” I turn my laptop to show him a particularly cringe-worthy post. “This isn’t the whole story.”
“How would you know?” He leans back, crossing his arms. “Maybe I am exactly what the tabloids say.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I say simply, pulling up a photo from months ago—one that hadn’t gotten many likes. In it, he’s holding open a door, smiling genuinely at an elegant older woman who’s laughing at something he’s said. The caption just reads, ‘Dinner with Reenie.’ It’s probably the only post I’ve seen where his smile actually reaches his eyes.
That throws him. “That’s my grandmother.” I watch surprise flicker across his face before his practiced smirk returns. “Been digging deep in my timeline, haven’t you?”
“It’s my job to find the real story.” I close my laptop. “Your fans don’t need another celebrity playboy. They need—“
“What? Some sanitized version of me?” His voice takes on an edge.
“Actually, no.” I meet his gaze. “I’m not here to change you. I’m here to help you show the parts of yourself that actually matter.”
“And what exactly do you think matters, Quinn Donovan?”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine, but I keep my voice steady. “That’s not for me to decide. But I’m confident there’s more to you than just drunk selfies and conquest posts.”
His phone buzzes, and the moment breaks.
“Speaking of conquests,” he drawls, checking the message. “Last night’s dinner date wants to know when she’s seeing me again.”
I roll my eyes, reaching for my laptop. “And the arrogant playboy’s back.”
“And that bothers you?”
“Hardly.” I lean forward with a stern look, “Though I should warn you—any new... nightly escapades will need to be more discreet. No more morning-after photos, please.”
He rises, stretches, and moves into my space with practiced ease. “You’re taking all the fun out of social media.”
“No,” I correct him, refusing to lean back despite his proximity. “I’m making room for the good stuff.”
“The good stuff,” he drawls, still standing too close, “is giving the fans what they want.”
“And you think what they want is another shirtless gym selfie?”
His grin turns wicked. “My last one got fifty thousand likes in an hour.”
“And zero engagement beyond ‘hot’ emojis.” I tap my laptop. “Your real fans—the ones who follow you because they love your music—they want substance.”
“Substance is overrated.”
“Says the man who spent three hours last week arguing with a fan about vintage Gibson guitars.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “That thread had more genuine engagement than your last twenty selfies combined.”
He blinks. “Damn! Did you read everything?”
“I told you—I’m thorough.” I pull up another analytics page. “Now, about your Twitter...”
“What’s wrong with my Twitter?”
“Besides the fact that you mainly use it to hit on models and start fights?” I scroll through his feed. “When was the last time you actually interacted with a fan about your music?”
“I interact plenty.”
“Sending winky faces to women who post revealing photos isn’t interaction.”
He drops into his chair, propping his feet on the table. “You’re a buzzkill, Red.”
“Quinn,” I correct automatically. “And I’m not killing anything. I’m redirecting your energy.”
“Redirecting?” His voice drops lower, suggestive. “I can think of better ways to spend my energy.”
I ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “Focus, Mr. Savage.”
“Back to Mr. Savage, are we?” He leans forward, removing his feet from the table. “What happened to Vince?”
“What happened to taking this seriously?”
Something flashes in his green eyes. “Who says I’m not?”
The intensity in his gaze catches me off guard. For a moment, I glimpse something beneath the carefully crafted Playboy facade—something that makes my pulse quicken.
My phone chimes, breaking the tension. It’s a reminder of my next appointment.
“Right,” I say, gathering my composure. “Let’s establish some ground rules.”
“I hate rules.”
“I noticed,” I say with a sigh. “Look, the band’s about to launch a new album. Your social media should reflect that, not...” I gesture at his phone, which is still buzzing with notifications. “All this inconsequential stuff.”
“But I like the inconsequential stuff,” he fires back with a smirk.
“You also like talking about music and being part of the band—right?”
“Of course,” he says, but there’s a shift in his tone. “Wild Band’s always been about pushing boundaries. Taking risks.”
“Tell me about that.” I lean forward, recognizing the passion in his voice.
“Our sound...” He grabs his guitar from its stand, fingers finding chords automatically. “It’s not just rock. We blend classical guitar techniques with a modern edge. That’s what made ‘Midnight Run’ work—that Spanish guitar intro breaking into heavy metal.” His hands move across the strings, demonstrating. “Nobody else was doing that ten years ago.”
For a moment, the carefully constructed playboy facade falls away, replaced by pure musician.
This is the Vince Savage his true fans want to see.
“This is exactly what I mean,” I say. “This is what your social media posts should show.”
He sets the guitar aside, his mask sliding back into place. “And you know this how?”
“Because it’s my job to know.” I pull out a contract. “Here is my contract. It lists the basics. No posting without my approval, and nothing that could damage the band’s reputation.”
I hand him the paperwork. “These are non-negotiable. Sign here.”
He takes the paper, scanning it with a frown. “This could really limit my entertainment options.”
“I guess you’ll have to find new ones.” I tap the paper. “Sign it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then Emily will be very disappointed.” I start packing up my things. “And I’ll find another client who actually wants to maintain their career.”
His pen hovers over the contract. “You’d walk away that easily?”
“Nothing about this is easy.” I meet his gaze. “But yes, I would. I don’t waste time on people who won’t help themselves.”
He signs with an exaggerated flourish, but his eyes never leave my face. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” I tuck the paper into my bag. “We’ll start fresh tomorrow. Today, I want you to post one thing—just one—about music. No shirtless photos, no party pics, no flirting. Think you can handle that?”
“You’re messing with my artistic expression.”
“I’m taking a chance, allowing you to post something about your music on your own. Show me you’re serious about this.”
“Such little faith.” He leans against the doorframe as I head out, crossing his arms. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest, and I force my eyes to stay on his face.
“Prove me wrong then,” I challenge.
“Oh, I will,” he calls after me. “Just watch.”
I turn toward my car, calling over my shoulder, “Remember. One music-related post today. Nothing else. And Vince?” I pause at my car door. “That acoustic video a few months ago? It’s still my favorite thing you’ve ever posted.”
I drive away, but in my rearview mirror, I see him still standing in the doorway, watching me leave.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to figure out why the man gets under my skin so easily. I’ve worked with difficult clients before, but something about Vince Savage is different.
Maybe it’s the way he sees through my professional facade like he knows I’m not as unmoved by his flirting as I pretend to be. Or maybe it’s those rare glimpses of something more beneath his carefully crafted image—like that photo with Reenie or the acoustic video he posted at Christmas.
My phone chimes with a notification.
@VinceSavage has posted a story.
I wait until I’m parked outside my next appointment to check it. It’s a video—his hands moving over guitar strings, playing the opening notes of “Hallelujah.” The caption simply reads: ‘For the new bossy lady I met. Don’t say I never gave you anything, Red.’
“It’s Quinn,” I mutter automatically, but I’m fighting a smile.
The video continues, and I find myself watching, unable to look away. There’s something mesmerizing about seeing the notorious Vince Savage completely focused on the music, all the swagger stripped away. This is what I’d been trying to tell him about these genuine moments that show who he really is.
Not that he made it easy to see past the carefully crafted bad-boy image. Whenever I thought I glimpsed something real, he’d throw up that wall of innuendos and practiced charm.
But I’d seen it. In the way, his entire demeanor changed when he talked about his music and the Wild Band. In those rare unguarded moments before, he remembered to be Vince Savage, notorious rockstar.
My phone chimes again—Emily checking on my progress with Vince.
“He signed,” I text back. “Though I’m pretty sure he’s going to make this as difficult as possible.”
Her response is immediate: “Would you expect anything else?”
No, I wouldn’t. And somehow, that thought doesn’t bother me as much as it should.