Page 80 of PR Stunt

“You, sir,” she continues, “are the luckiest man in the world.”

I shake my head, laughing lightly and playing it off.

Grayson, the unbearable man that he is, takes his time. He lets his gaze linger before finally saying, “I know. I really am.”

My stomach flips.

He doesn’t get to say things like that. Especially not in that voice.

I tilt my head, giving him an exasperated look, and then laugh as I turn back to the YouTuber. “Oh, stop!”

No, seriously. Stop. I’m feeling way too much right now. God forbid he lets a moment pass without reminding everyone he’s that guy. I face him again, but I’m not looking at his eyes anymore. I’m looking at his full lips. Too perfect for someone who never shuts up. I swallow, and he notices. His brows twitch, knowing exactly where my mind went.

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. A look that says, What are you staring at, Miss Grace?

My spine stiffens. Dammit. I look up, shooting back a glare that reads loud and clear, Don’t even start. Grayson smothers a grin, but I catch it before he turns back to the YouTuber.

“Great to see you,” he says smoothly, offering her one of his signature charming smiles. “We’ll see you inside.”

“Yes! Have the best night, you two!” She beams, oblivious to whatever just passed between us.

I nod, forcing a warm smile. “Can’t wait. Enjoy the gala!”

We step away, his grip still light around my waist as we move back into the crowd. I need a stiff drink and some air. I exhale slowly. The moment we step inside, the world outside ceases to exist. No phones. No cameras. No leaks. Everything beyond the entrance is for the eyes of the invited only. The air is thick with exclusivity. Conversations stay low, and laughter spills like champagne. The gala is for Hollywood’s inner circle, where deals are sealed over cocktails and careers shift with a handshake. Silk drapes spill from vaulted ceilings onto polished marble floors. Towering arrangements of orchids, cream roses, and golden lilies line the walls. Chandeliers cast a warm glow over whispered secrets and clinking glasses. This is the inner sanctum. The public mask slips away, replaced by one even more carefully constructed.

We enter the exhibition hall, the first part of the evening. Every year, the City of Angels Gala opens with a curated showcase. This time, it’s a tribute to old Hollywood glamor. Glass cases hold gowns from the 1920s and beyond. Champagne flutes tilt as guests admire handwritten script pages, notes scribbled in fading ink by directors long gone. A reverent hush settles over the room.

I move fluidly through the exhibit, my gaze skimming over a collection of vintage compacts once owned by the most iconic actresses. Grayson moves with me, both of us taking it in. Every shift, every step, every subtle motion—he matches it like we’re two parts of a seamless, well-rehearsed performance. He reaches for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and hands it to me. I take it, lifting it to my lips, my expression light. This is what they want to see. The curated new couple. We are perfectly in sync. It would almost be impressive if I wasn’t feeling like every eye in the room was watching, waiting to see if I’d crack. A few moments later, we’ve put enough space between ourselves and the nearest cluster of people that I can murmur under my breath.

“Great. Love a public ambush.”

I don’t turn to him as I say it. I keep my expression pleasant, body language relaxed. No one watching would suspect a thing. But Grayson knows me well enough to catch the sharpness behind the smile.

“That wasn’t part of the agenda tonight.” I murmur, barely moving my lips.

I swallow my irritation, forcing a composed sip of my drink.

“You didn’t like it?” he murmurs near my ear, sending shivers skimming down my body.

I ignore the heat crawling up my spine. I need to focus. I need to survive this night.

“That’s funny,” he whispers, his breath just barely brushing my skin. “Because I’m afraid your body betrayed you, Miss Grace.”

A single finger trails lightly down my spine. My back locks.

“Practically melted into me.”

I bite my lip.

“Like you’re doing now, sweetheart.”

I clench my jaw and take a small, casual step forward, pretending to look very interested in whatever is in front of me. I will my pulse to steady. He’s baiting me. And worse, my body is enjoying it. I exhale, measured and composed, before finally tilting my head to meet his gaze. I need to remind myself what’s real and what isn’t. The soft rustle of fabric and the occasional murmur of admiration fill the space.

Then—a voice behind me.

“Charlie Grace! You kept this man quite the secret.”

I turn, already schooling my features before I even see her. Harper Wolfe, my recent co-star from Toronto, looks elegance personified tonight in a silk red gown, her gaze moving between Grayson and me with quiet curiosity.