Rockstar’s Doorstep Baby (Wild Band Rockstars #5)

1. One

One

Quinn

The salt-laden breeze whips my red hair as I stand at the front door of the modern beach house, double-checking the address on my phone. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I glimpse a wall of guitars glinting in the late morning sun. Definitely Vince Savage’s place.

I smooth down my pencil skirt, take a steadying breath, and press the doorbell. The chime echoes inside, followed by what sounds suspiciously like cursing and heavy footsteps.

The door swings open, and my carefully prepared introduction sticks in my throat. Photos don’t do Vince Savage justice. Standing before me is six feet plus of pure male perfection, wearing nothing but low-hanging sleep pants that seem to be fighting a losing battle with gravity. Dark tattoos wind across his arms and muscled chest, disappearing beneath the waistband. His abs look like they were carved from marble, and a light dusting of dark hair trails ever downward...

I drag my gaze up to his face, which doesn’t help matters. Dark stubble shadows his sharp jawline, and his bed-messed black hair makes him look like he’s just rolled out of bed after a very satisfied night of…

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.” His voice is rough with sleep, and his green eyes regard me with annoyed interest.

I straighten my spine. “I’m Quinn Donovan. Emily Ryder sent me.”

He leans against the doorframe, the movement making his abs flex in a way that should be illegal. “Emily sent you?” His eyes narrow as they rake over me, lingering on my curves despite my conservative outfit. “Why?”

“She said you’d be expecting me.”

He squints, recognition slowly dawning. “Shit. You’re the social media specialist or something.” His voice is rough with sleep. “That was today?”

“Yes. Mind if we talk inside? I don’t usually do this on the doorstep.”

He studies me for a moment, then steps back. The movement pulls his sleep pants dangerously lower, and I force my eyes up. Way up.

The interior screams bachelor pad—modern furniture, massive TV, gaming setup, and empty beer bottles scattered across the coffee table. The view of Jacksonville Beach through the back windows would be stunning if the glass weren’t streaked with salt spray.

“It’s eleven-thirty,” I point out, checking my watch. “I assumed you’d be awake.”

“I’m awake now, aren’t I?” He runs a hand through his messy hair, the movement highlighting his biceps. “What’s this about?”

“I’m your new social media manager.” I stick out my hand, but he just rakes his green eyes over me once again. I drop my hand and shrug, trying to lighten the mood. “Honestly, some might think you’re trying to sabotage your career based on your latest posts. They’re a disaster.

He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his scent—something expensive and masculine mixed with sleep-warm skin. “A disaster? That’s harsh.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “And that’s not your call to make.”

“Actually, it is. Emily gave me full authority to—“

“No.” He crosses his arms over his chest, muscles bunching. “I decide who manages my social media. And I’m already working with someone.”

“Your last post was a blurry photo of your guitar with the caption ‘rock on.’ Before that, nothing for three days.” I swipe through my tablet. “Your engagement numbers are dropping, and—“

“I hate social media.”

“Clearly.” I meet his gaze. “But it’s part of being a rockstar. Your fans want to connect with you.”

He snorts. “They connect at concerts.”

“The Wild Band has five million followers. You have less than a million, and half of those are probably bots.” I step closer, refusing to be intimidated by his towering presence. “Your bandmates all maintain active, engaging profiles. Even Cass, and he can be almost as grumpy as you are.”

A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “Almost?”

“At least he posts daily.”

“Look, Red—“

“Quinn.”

“Quinn,” he drawls, making my name sound like sin itself. “I appreciate Emily’s concern, but I’m happy with my current arrangement.”

I roll my eyes. “Unfortunately, Emily is not. That’s why I’m your new social media manager,“ I state firmly. “She hired me to handle your accounts effective immediately.”

A door opens down the hallway. “Vince? Who are you talking to?”

A blonde appears, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, her mascara slightly smudged. She takes one look at me, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arching. “And who exactly are you?”

I force my professional smile to stay in place, even as heat creeps up my neck. “As I was just explaining to Mr. Savage, I’m Quinn Donovan. His new social media manager.”

“Excuse me?” The blonde’s voice rises an octave. “I’m his social media manager.” She stalks forward, somehow making the sheet look like battle armor. “You can’t just walk in here and take my job. Tell her, Vince. We have an arrangement.”

The way she purrs ‘arrangement’ makes my cheeks burn hotter. I focus on my tablet, pretending to check notifications while trying to mask my distaste for the entire situation.

Before Vince can respond, his bedroom door opens again. A brunette emerges, tugging her crop top into place. She saunters over to Vince, pressing herself against his side.

“Thanks for last night, rockstar,” she murmurs, trailing her fingers down his chest. She stretches up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Call me when you’re up for another private performance.”

I’m certain my face now matches my hair color. This is definitely not in my contract.

The brunette finally seems to notice the tension in the room. “Um, I’ll just... grab an Uber.”

“Good idea,” the blonde says, crossing her arms as she looks resentfully between Vince and me.

I check my watch. 11:37 AM. This is going to be a very long day.

“Ladies,” Vince says smoothly, placing a hand around each of their waists. “Sorry for the early morning wake-up call. I had a good time.”

Turning toward the blonde. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding, Angie.” He says as he guides her toward the bedroom. “Let me talk to Emily, the band manager, and then I’ll call you later.”

The brunette calmly goes into the kitchen while making a phone call, apparently unfazed by the chaos. I almost envy her ability to stay so casual. This is beginning to feel like the setup for a bad reality TV show. I pretend to scroll through my email, masking my growing discomfort—and the absurdity of this entire situation. Snippets of heated whispers drift from the bedroom, followed by the rustle of clothing.

Five minutes later, after Angie emerges from the bedroom, both women stride past me, the blonde shooting daggers with her eyes while the brunette seems more amused than anything.

“I’ve already called for a driver,” the brunette tells Angie. “We’ll split the Uber.”

The front door closes behind them with a definitive click.

“Why don’t you take five minutes to get dressed,” I suggest to Vince, who’s still standing there shirtless. “We need to have our first meeting.”

“Now?” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Look, I should probably call Emily first—“

“Emily confirmed she notified you about my arrival today.” I arch an eyebrow. “Perhaps if you checked your phone, that would clear things up.”

He scowls, scanning the room. “Where the hell is my phone?”

I watch as he moves around the living room, finally dropping to his knees to peer under the coffee table. The movement draws my attention to his broad shoulders, and I quickly avert my eyes.

“Found it,” he mutters, scrolling through messages. His frown deepens. “11:30 meeting—well, damn…”

“You were going to get dressed,” I remind him, setting up my laptop on his dining room table. “And please put on a shirt.” Not that it’s exactly an unpleasant view, but I don’t need the distraction.

He disappears down the hallway, returning moments later in jeans and a snug white T-shirt that does nothing to hide his muscular build. He drops into the chair across from me, smelling of toothpaste and expensive cologne.

“First,” I begin, forcing myself to focus, “let’s discuss what you should and shouldn’t be posting.” I slide a printed document across the table. “This is your new social media protocol. The left column contains required posts: band updates, concert information, and appropriate fan interaction. The right column is what you absolutely cannot post.”

He picks up the paper. “No drunk posting? No suggestive comments to female fans?” His eyes narrow. “No guitar collection photos?”

“I added that one—your last seventeen posts were nearly identical shots of your guitars. Your fans want to see you, not your instruments.” I turn my laptop so he can see his profile. “Now, you should watch as I clean up your social media presence.”

“Hey!” He protests as I start deleting posts. “Those are my—“

“These bathroom mirror selfies.” Click. Delete. “Blurry 3 AM posts.” Click. Delete. “This video of you serenading the Victoria’s Secret window display.” Click. Delete. “Oh, and my personal favorite—half a dozen photos of what you ate for breakfast.” Click. Delete. “Hopefully, that’s all—Uh oh, these suggestive comments to female fans? Those definitely need to go.”

“You can’t just—“

“I can, and I am.” I continue my systematic purge. “Emily gave me full authority over your social media presence. Your posts reflect on the entire band’s image, and she’s tired of doing damage control.”

He leans back, crossing his arms. “Emily’s overreacting.”

“Your last Instagram, while getting thousands of likes, was inappropriate. Hosting an impromptu ‘Miss Savage’ pageant at midnight while wearing nothing but leather pants wasn’t your finest moment—especially when the finalists started fighting over who you’d take home.”

“But, look at the numbers—It went viral.”

I meet his green eyes. “It’s not about the numbers—it’s about connecting.”

As he sits back with a huff, I try a slightly different approach. “Look, I’m good at what I do, Mr. Savage. But if you have a problem with this, then you should take it up with Emily.” I give him a direct look. “I’m here now and ready to work. But the choice is yours.”

Something flashes across his face—anger, maybe respect—before he sighs. “Fine. What exactly do you want me to post?

I pull up a content calendar. “We’ll start with daily updates. Behind-the-scenes content from rehearsals, appropriate fan interaction, and promotions for upcoming shows.” I tap the screen. “Everything must be approved by me before posting.”

“You aren’t some kind of a control freak? Are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m very good at my job.” I close my laptop. “Unlike your previous social media manager.”

His mouth twitches. “Jealous?”

“Hardly.” I stand, smoothing my skirt. “I prefer to keep business separate from my personal life.”

“Pity,” he drawls, a sinful smile curving his lips. “I’m really good at the personal part.”

“So, I gather,” I state dryly, picking up my laptop. “I’ll be back tomorrow at nine AM.”

“So early?”

“Welcome to the new version of Vince Savage,” I say, heading for the door. I pause with my hand on the knob, glancing back at him. “The cleaned-up, professionally managed version. And fair warning—I expect you to be dressed and caffeinated. Consider your days of posting shirtless bathroom selfies as officially over.”

His amused laughter follows me out the door. Once safely outside, I let out a slow, shaky breath, leaning against the cool metal of my car door. My cheeks burn hotter than they have in years. This wasn’t how I’d envisioned my first day, but then again, nothing about Vince Savage seems predictable.

Sliding into my seat, I drop my head back against the headrest, eyes closing briefly. I shouldn’t feel this rattled by a client, especially one like Vince. I’ve worked with plenty of celebrities, managed bigger egos, and handled much tougher personalities. Yet somehow, this arrogant rockstar has managed to completely throw me off balance.

With renewed resolve, I pull away from the curb, mentally drafting my next move. Vince Savage might think he’s charming—irresistible even, but he hasn’t seen me in full damage-control mode yet. Tomorrow, he’ll find out exactly what he’s up against.