Provoke_ A Seaside Pictures Novella (Seaside Pictures #3.7) - Rachel Van Dyken Page 0,4

that he claimed was his ‘stash.

Not the case.

I took a sip of wine—the guy at least had good taste—and glanced around the large room. I had a balcony that overlooked the ocean, a closet to die for, and even though the room was stark white and a bit bare, I immediately loved it. I wasn’t one for lots of knickknacks. I liked solid colors, a good streamline, and Braden’s beach house had that in spades.

Braden… Just saying his name in my head reminded me of that firm handshake and the way his red hair fell over his perfectly sculpted face as his lips pressed together in a full line. Why did guys always get the strong jawlines and full lips? I shook my head and took a calming breath. My suitcases were in front of the bed. I knew before I left LA that I’d need to put on a bit of armor since I was working with a younger singer. I just didn’t expect…him.

I opened the first suitcase and saw that my black clothes were all still neatly folded.

Black was easy.

It matched at all times.

Was extremely slimming.

Hid stains.

And always looked on point when I was traveling.

Then again, I’d been living out of a suitcase for longer than usual considering the blow-up with my ex-boyfriend. I gritted my teeth then tried to focus on the positive.

New client who just needed to get over some stage fright.

Piece of cake.

I let out a snort just thinking about the poor rock star in the living room with his ginger hair, dimpled smile, many tattoos, ripped, gray T-shirt and distressed jeans.

Did he own any clothing that didn’t have holes in it?

Yeah, he was the exact opposite of order and organization.

When my boss called and said that he was tossing me into more celebrity-filled waters, I automatically went into work mode. I wrongly assumed that it would be some actress who needed direction or had a meltdown on set. Maybe an actor struggling through a life crisis, or someone who’d just had enough of the lifestyle and needed a good, solid life plan outside of being told what to do every single second of every single day.

I’d never once in my life dealt with anyone from the music industry. The firm I worked with was private, discreet, and catered to wealthier clients who, after realizing every goal they set out to accomplish, often became depressed with their lives and needed to find direction. A purpose outside of what used to be their passion. And nothing on Earth was more gratifying than witnessing that moment.

It was like a sunset that took your breath away.

The first snow.

Birth.

It was like someone shouting “hallelujah” in the middle of church.

People always talked about the moments in their lives, the ah-ha ones. And lucky for me, I was almost always the one who helped facilitate that with my clients.

It was what I did.

Normally, I loved that part of my job.

Which again brought me back to the present.

How the heck was I supposed to help a singer who’d, if the media was to be believed, had a meltdown on stage after someone used his concert as a way to make a personal statement by way of violence? It didn’t help that loud noises triggered him now, and concerts were notoriously loud.

Details were on lockdown.

The media had been oddly quiet about what had actually happened that day, despite all of the video footage. They feared there would be a copycat. And even though Braden had cooperated, he looked a lot different now versus the blurry footage of him on stage.

Haunted.

I’d watched all of his old YouTube videos from when he was nineteen and then graduated to his more recent stuff. He went from looking young to haunted. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to be like in person but this wasn’t it.

I quickly grabbed my notepad, my duffel bag full of fun, and my notes on the client, then slowly made my way back into the living room.

I could finish unpacking later.

I wanted to get to know Braden first. The real Braden, not the one that people saw on TV or worshiped while swaying to his nearly identical Sean Mendes-style voice.

“Braden?” I glanced around the bare-yet-gorgeous living room with its deep brown leather couches, fuzzy white throw pillows, and floor-to-ceiling fireplace.

The doors to the outside folded inside the kitchen. It automatically transported the area into an indoor/outdoor space that had two heaters, an outdoor fireplace, and several fur blankets next to red