Page 9 of PR Stunt

But considering this was our first real introduction, I’d expected something closer to nice to meet you than a direct challenge to my entire public persona. “Not what?”

His smile deepens, a hint of amusement behind it. “I’m still figuring that out.”

I offer a polite smile, just enough to be civil. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

Beside me, Anna shoots me a look equal parts what the hell was that? and who are you right now?

Grayson’s eyes glint with something unreadable. Wow… He really thinks he’s clever. I’ve met plenty of industry types like this. Charming, smug, and just cryptic enough to be annoying.

Anna clears her throat. “As fun as this is, you two should get comfortable. You’ll be sitting together.”

I blink, caught off guard. “We will?”

Miranda gives Grayson a pointed look as she steps past him, voice dry. “Behave.”

Grayson quietly chuckles, shaking his head like the idea of him behaving is a foregone conclusion.

Anna pats my arm as she and Miranda start to walk away. “Have fun.”

I resist the urge to call her back or, I don’t know, strangle her. Instead, I turn back to Grayson.

“After you,” he says.

Gritting my teeth, I sit.

Grayson slides into the seat beside me. Like clockwork, a gentleman in a tux steps onto the stage, speaking smoothly into the mic.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome. Tonight, we gather not just for an evening of elegance, but for a cause that truly matters. It’s an honor to be in a room filled with such passionate and generous individuals, all here to make a difference. As we raise our glasses, let’s also raise awareness, support and, if we’re lucky, record-breaking donations for Silver Lining Foundation. Because change doesn’t happen alone, and tonight, each of you is a part of something bigger.”

I raise my flute into the air, along with the room, the soft chime of crystal echoing as glasses meet in a shared toast. Beside me, Grayson lifts his own glass, turning his head slightly in my direction.

“Think they’ll meet their fundraising goal?”

I take a sip, eyes scanning the glittering crowd. “Depends on how generous the rich and famous are feeling tonight.”

His lips quirk. “And you? Feeling generous?”

Oh, for the love of—

The way he says it makes it clear he definitely doesn’t just mean with donations. I’ve known Grayson Cole for all of five minutes, and somehow he’d already managed to remind me why half the internet thought he was incapable of having a normal conversation with a woman.

Take the high road, Charlie.

Smile. Be polite. Get through the fundraiser.

I arch a brow, swirling the champagne in my glass. “Not generous enough to entertain whatever you’re implying.”

His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, amusement flickers in his eyes.

“Shame,” he murmurs, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I hear generosity is an attractive quality.”

“I’m sure you get by just fine without my generosity.”

Grayson lets out a quiet laugh.

Ignoring him, I turn my attention to the rest of the table.

To my right sits Daniel Wexler, deep in conversation with an older man in a sharp tux—one of the studio executives, if I had to guess. Across from me, a well-known actress, someone I’ve worked with in the past, gestures animatedly as she speaks, diamond earrings catching the light. Beside her sits a singer-songwriter with a cult following and cryptic social posts. I’m doing my best to not completely fangirl. And then there’s one of the women who had been practically draping herself over Grayson at the bar now sitting on the other side of him, clearly delighted by the seating arrangement. She’s angled toward him, one elbow resting on the table, fingers playing with her black hair, a move that’s too practiced to be anything but intentional. Every time he shifts, so does she, tracking his movements with laser focus. I glance at Grayson. If he notices, he doesn’t show it. His focus stays lazily settled on me, amusement still flickering behind his eyes. The bid portion of the night starts, and the first thing up for bid is the right to name a minor planet or star after yourself. I stifle a laugh as the auctioneer announces it with the same gravitas as if he were selling a Monet. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, some amused, others actually considering it.