5. Five
Five
Quinn
My phone rings before dawn—as usual. I’m already up, coffee in hand, scanning reports while my cat Luna purrs on my lap. Being a social media manager for the rich and famous means operating on their schedule, not mine. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Your Instagram story is trending,” I text my K-pop star client in Seoul. “Perfect timing with the album drop.”
Three more crisis alerts pop up: a politician’s daughter’s drunk tweet, a basketball player’s controversial like, and an actress’s wardrobe malfunction during a live feed. I handle each with practiced efficiency, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
This is what I live for—the rush of managing digital wildfires before they become infernos.
My 8 AM is at Café Paris, where the city’s elite come to see and be seen. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over marble tables, and the air is perfumed with fresh-baked croissants and hundred-dollar espresso. I always choose places like this for client meetings—public enough to maintain boundaries and exclusive enough to make them comfortable.
NHL star Tyler Brooks has claimed the most private corner table. His reputation for scoring isn’t limited to the ice, and he sprawls in his chair with practiced ease, all cocky grin, and calculated charm.
“Come on, Quinn,” he says, leaning forward. “Dinner won’t kill you. I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”
I don’t even look up from my laptop. “Tyler, your Twitter engagement is down 12%. Let’s focus on that instead.”
“Always business.” He sighs dramatically. “That’s what I like about you. Well, that and—“
“Your fan demographic is primarily female, ages 18-34,” I cut in. “We need to emphasize your community service more, less party pics.”
He finally gets the message, and we spend the next hour plotting his social strategy. It’s easy and practiced—just another wealthy client who mistakes attention for interest or attraction.
But when I walk into Vince’s home studio at 2 PM, my carefully maintained professional distance wobbles. He’s bent over his guitar, dark hair falling in his eyes, completely lost in whatever he’s playing. The raw intensity on his face makes my breath catch.
I clear my throat. He looks up, and that slow smile spreads across his face—the one that makes me forget every reason why getting involved with clients is career suicide.
“Red,” he drawls, setting aside his guitar. “You’re early.”
“You’re actually here,” I counter. “And practicing? Should I check for signs that the world is ending?”
“Maybe I just wanted to impress my favorite social media guru.”
The worst part is that it does impress me. Everything about him does—his talent, his quick wit, the way he sees through my professional facade like it’s made of glass.
He stretches, and my eyes are drawn to how his T-shirt rides up, revealing a slice of firm, tanned skin. I force my attention back to my tablet. “Let’s review last night’s numbers.”
“Boring.” He stands, moving closer. “Let’s talk about how you ditched the after-party.”
“I already told you—I had an early meeting.”
“With the hockey player?” There’s an edge to his voice I choose to ignore. “Heard he’s quite the charmer.”
“Yes, he’s quite charming.” I flash him an innocent smile. “Especially when discussing his Twitter strategy.” I pull up my analytics app, pretending not to notice how Vince’s proximity makes the air feel electric. “Speaking of social media, your impromptu solo just hit two million views. Turns out your fans prefer actual music to tabloid headlines. Who knew?”
“Quinn.” He takes the tablet from my hands, setting it aside. “Look at me.”
I do, keeping my expression professionally neutral despite the way my pulse kicks up when our eyes meet. Those green eyes should come with a warning label.
“Two million views,” he says, leaning against his soundboard. “Damn. So, that’s what happens when we post my music and not just selfies?”
“Yep. Does that mean that you’re admitting I was right?”
His mouth quirks. “I’m admitting nothing. But I will say...” He pretends to consider it. “Maybe my social media guru isn’t completely terrible at her job.”
“High praise indeed.” I retrieve my tablet, using it as a shield between us. “Oh, I need to show you how to pre-schedule some posts.”
“Always business with you, Red.” He shakes his head, but I catch the way his eyes linger on my hair, my lips. “Don’t you ever just... relax?”
“I relax plenty.”
“Yeah? When was the last time you went out? Had fun? Did something completely unprofessional?”
The way he says ‘unprofessional’ sends a shiver down my spine that I firmly ignore. “We’re not here to discuss my social life.”
“That’s not a denial.” He grins, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Come on, I’ll take you to dinner. Strictly platonic. I promise to behave.”
“Like you behaved with the twins last night? No, I think I’ll pass. “
His grin falters slightly. “Is that disapproval or jealousy I hear?”
“It’s concern—about your image.” I pull up some social media comments. “Some fans aren’t loving the Playboy reputation lately.”
“So help me fix it.”
“That’s literally why I’m here.”
He runs a hand through his hair, restless energy radiating off him. “I can’t focus in here anymore. Walk with me?”
I hesitate. The responsible thing would be to stick to our agenda, but the afternoon sun streams through the studio windows, painting everything gold, and even I’m feeling a bit confined by these walls.
“Just to clear our heads,” he adds, reading my expression. “The beach is right there, and this time of day, it’s practically empty.”
He’s right. His property sits on one of the most exclusive stretches of coastline in Ponte Vedra Beach, where the beaches are more private than public. Still...
“Ten minutes,” I concede, slipping my tablet into my bag. “Then we’re finishing this meeting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grins, leading me through the side door of the studio.
The path to the beach is worn but private. The sound of waves replaces the hum of his sound equipment, and salt air fills my lungs. It’s peaceful out here, away from screens, notifications, and constant attention to social media.
Vince walks beside me, closer than strictly necessary but not so close that I need to comment on it. His usual kinetic energy seems to settle in the ocean air.
“This is why I bought this place,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Not for the house or the studio. For this.”
I glance at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. It’s a side of Vince Savage the public never sees - the man behind the carefully curated image of rockstar excess.
The wind whips my hair around my face as we walk along the water’s edge. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the sand, and the beach is deserted except for a few seabirds.
“So this is what the infamous Vince Savage does to unwind?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “No wild parties or groupies?”
He kicks at the sand, hands in his pockets. “Surprised?”
“A little.” I’m more surprised by how natural this feels, walking beside him with no agenda, no pressure. “Your Instagram would suggest otherwise.”
“Maybe there’s more to me than my Instagram.” He glances at me sideways. “Just like I bet there’s more to you than perfectly scheduled tweets and damage control.”
“I live for damage control,” I say automatically, but we both know it’s not entirely true.
He stops walking, turning to face the ocean. The breeze ruffles his dark hair, and for a moment, he looks younger, more unguarded. “You know what I miss? Writing music just because. Not thinking about streams or likes or what’ll make the best video content.”
Something in his voice makes me pause. “When was the last time you did that?”
“Wrote just for me?” He shrugs. “Before we hit it big, probably. These days, everything’s calculated. Has to be.”
“It doesn’t,” I say softly, surprising myself. “Not always.”
He turns to me, one eyebrow raised. “Coming from Ms. Strategy herself?”
“Even I know the best content is authentic.” I pause, watching a wave crash against the shore. “Your solo yesterday? That wasn’t calculated. That’s why it went viral.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “That was just notes. That’s where I live—in the music itself. Never been much for lyrics. I leave that to Cass, Luke, and the others.”
Something shifts in his expression, and I remember the songs the band has written recently—each one a declaration of love for their partners. The melodies, though—some of their most haunting arrangements have Vince’s signature all over them.
“Sometimes the music says more than words can anyway,” I offer.
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Sometimes it does.”
The moment stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid, until I clear my throat and turn back toward his house. “We should head back.”
“Business as usual.” But there’s no bite to his words this time, just something that sounds almost like fondness.
A small family comes into view—parents hovering close as their toddler squeals at the waves lapping at his feet. Vince visibly tenses beside me.
“Not your scene?” I ask, noting his reaction.
“Definitely not. Only child syndrome, I guess. Wouldn’t know what to do with a kid if you handed me one.” He watches the family for a moment longer before turning away. “Rennie’s all the family I need right now. Maybe ever.”
“No desire for the white picket fence?”
“Hell, no.” He laughs, but it’s not unkind. “I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.” He gestures vaguely toward the family. “A family’s not my style. I’m better solo. Always have been.”
The irony of his words—the famous lead guitarist of the Wild Band claiming to be better alone—isn’t lost on me.
“What about you?” he asks, surprising me. “You strike me as someone good with children.”
“Had to be. Oldest of five.” I smile, remembering the chaos of my childhood home in Minnesota. “Built-in babysitting service.”
“Five?” He looks horrified. “How did your parents manage?”
“Lots of love, strict schedules, and an industrial-sized washing machine.” The memory of our family dinners, all of us crammed around the table, hits me with unexpected force. “I don’t see them much now. The job keeps me pretty busy, and Minnesota’s not exactly around the corner.”
“Must be hard, being away from them.”
The genuine interest in his voice catches me off guard. “It is. But we do weekly video calls. My youngest sister just started high school, if you can believe it.”
“Time flies,” he murmurs, then adds with a smirk, “Bet you organize those video calls into a neat little schedule.”
“Obviously. Color-coded and everything.” I quip in agreement.
His laugh is unexpected and real, nothing like the practiced charm he uses for interviews. “Ah, so you do have a sense of humor.”
We’re nearly back to his studio now, the responsible part of my brain already shifting into work mode, but I can’t help asking, “Tell me about your grandmother. She raised you, right?”
His expression softens. “Yeah. It was the best thing that ever happened to me, even if it didn’t feel like it at first. She’s the one who got me interested in music, actually. She’d drag me with her to every concert she could find.” He pauses, lost in the memory. “Still does when she’s in town. Rennie tolerates my fancy electronic guitars, as she calls them. She’s more into classical music.”
“Sounds like a formidable woman.”
“You have no idea.” His grin displays fondness. “She’d like you, though. Probably tell me I need more people like you in my life—keeping me honest, calling me on my bullshit.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Nah.” He stops at the studio door, turning to face me. “This wasn’t your job. This was...” He gestures between us. “Something else.”
The air feels charged suddenly, and he thankfully reaches for the door handle before I can do something stupid like agree with him. Instead, I ask, “Would you rather pick this up tomorrow morning, even though it’s the weekend?”
“Right.” His voice is neutral again, professional. “Business only. Sure, I’ll see you Saturday.”
But as I turn to leave, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us, as subtle and inevitable as the tide.