Page 10 of PR Stunt

Beside me, Grayson leans in slightly, voice low. “Bet there’s one out there unofficially named after you already.”

“This doesn’t actually work on girls, does it?”

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk but close. “You tell me.”

Yeah, no.

The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the chatter, announcing the opening bid. A paddle goes up immediately. Then another. The bids climb—fifty thousand, then a hundred thousand, then two-fifty.

I shake my head, glancing at Grayson. “Imagine spending a quarter million dollars just to slap your name on a rock in space.”

He exhales a quiet chuckle. “Some people like to leave a legacy.”

“And you? No interest in Planet Grayson?”

“Depends. If I win, I might just name it Charlie Grace.”

Now I really can’t stop my eyes from rolling. “There are so many other meaningful ways to leave a legacy. At least the money goes to something good. Something right. Something…real.”

Something moves across his face, brief enough to doubt, and then it’s gone. He opens his mouth to speak, but the woman at his side claims him first, her hand sliding over his arm as she pulls his attention back. As the bids climb higher, waiters glide through the room, expertly placing plates in front of each guest. The dinner portion of the evening begins, though the real entertainment is still the auction, where people are now bidding on a crystal “blessed” by Hollywood’s favorite spiritual guru, guaranteed to ward off bad press. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider bidding on that one.

“Tell me something, Charlie,” Grayson murmurs. “Are you really as untouchable as you pretend to be?”

He leans in slightly, gaze locked on mine. “Or should we test that theory somewhere a little more…private?”

Seriously? At a charity fundraiser?

Five minutes. I’ve known this man for five minutes.

Five minutes of trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Five minutes of reminding myself that gossip isn’t always reality. Five minutes of convincing myself that maybe he had been unfairly judged.

Apparently not.

I glance around the room, taking in the auction tables, the donors, the volunteers who had probably spent months putting this event together.

And somehow, this is where his mind went.

Not the cause. Not the event. Not even a genuine attempt to get to know me. Instead, he’s somehow managed to make it abundantly clear where his priorities are. Instead of asking me about the charity, my work, or literally anything else, he’d decided to see if I was interested in sneaking off with him. A familiar annoyance flares in my chest. The least he can do is pretend to get to know me. Give me something to work with. Honestly, it’s insulting. And maybe jet lag is making me crankier than usual, but I’m getting really tired of men treating basic conversation like an obstacle standing between them and what they actually want.

His benefit of the doubt is officially expired.

I glare at Grayson, jaw tightening as I force myself to stay composed. “You’re delusional.”

His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “Bold words for someone who just lost her cool over a little conversation.”

My grip tightens around the stem of my glass. “You really think I lost my grip?” I say, keeping my voice even. “You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”

“Maybe not,” he replies, his tone maddeningly calm. “But I’m definitely more fun.”

“Fun?” I scoff. “Sure, if fun means becoming someone’s cautionary tale.”

He chuckles. “Keeping tabs on me?”

I turn toward my plate, cutting into the filet with a little more force than necessary. “You flatter yourself.”

Grayson leans in again. “No, Charlie. You do that every time you rise to the bait.”

“I don’t know how you’ve managed this long with your egotistical, entitled, self-inflated ways, but let me make one thing very clear.” I lean in slightly. “You are not charming. You are not intriguing. And you are not getting under my skin.”