Page 82 of PR Stunt

I return the smile. “You as well.”

The ballroom buzzes with energy. Cocktail hour is where the real conversations happen. A live jazz band plays softly from the stage, filling the gilded space with smooth melodies. Waiters weave between guests, balancing trays of drinks and bite-sized hors d’oeuvres that probably took a team of chefs hours to perfect. It’s warm and intimate.

Grayson and I move in sync through the crowd, our pace smooth and unhurried. People nod as we pass, offering quiet greetings. Some I’ve worked with, others I only know from headlines or years of admiration. I keep my expression open, offering polite smiles and the occasional soft hi, how are you as we navigate the room. Grayson does the same, playing his part to perfection.

I slip into conversation with a director I’ve been hoping to work with, nodding as he describes his next project. A gritty role that would push me in exactly the way I’ve been craving.

A few feet away, Grayson is surrounded by producers and executives. I catch fragments of his conversation. His next film. International distribution. A studio wanting to see us cast together. I school my features and turn back to the director, but the message is clear. This isn’t just for the press or the public. The industry is watching.

The call for dinner finally comes, and as the crowd starts moving toward the grand dining hall, Grayson finds his way back to my side. And then, just as we near our seats, he speaks.

Barely above a whisper, his voice is low and even. “You don’t need to do that.”

I hesitate, glancing at him sideways, my brows pulling in slightly. “Do what?”

His jaw tightens, a flicker of something restrained behind his gaze. “Stick up for me.”

Ah.

The conversation with Harper.

“Well, we can’t very well have people saying you’re still sleeping around while dating me, can we?” I whisper.

Grayson exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly—not at me, but at the situation, at Harper, at the way the past never quite stays buried. Well, whose fault is that?

“Nice to know you have my best interests at heart, Miss Grace.”

His voice is dry, but there’s no bite behind it. No irritation directed at me. If anything, there’s something else there, something quieter. I flash him a soft, sweet smile and then step forward as he pulls out my chair.

“You know me so well.”

He holds my gaze for half a second longer, his jaw tight, the muscle ticking slightly before he exhales and takes his own seat beside me.

And just as he settles, barely audible, low enough that no one else could hear it, he mutters, “Thank you.”

It’s subtle, offhand. But it’s real. I meet his gaze this time, letting the moment stretch just a second longer before I give him a tight nod.

He looks away, reaching for the menu and flipping it open.

Chapter 25

As I settle into my seat, I take in our table. To my right sits Lauren Caldwell. I don’t know her well, but Juno does. They worked together a few years ago, and according to her, Lauren is a shark. She competes more than she celebrates. We’ve crossed paths at events, sharing polite smiles, nothing more. To my left is Grayson. Even with the grandeur around us, his presence feels grounded. His knee rests against mine, and his arm is draped along the back of my chair, fingers just barely grazing my shoulder. To anyone watching, it would seem organic.

Lauren shifts beside me. “You know,” she says, her tone smooth and casual, “I always meant to ask you something, Charlie.”

I glance over, keeping my expression open. “What’s that?”

She twirls her fork through her salad, eyes still on her plate. “That role you did a couple of years ago. Falling Fast.”

A prickle of awareness crawls up my spine. Falling Fast. The film that earned me my first Best Actress award.

Lauren lifts her head and smiles. There’s a softness to it but something sharper underneath. “I didn’t realize we were both up for it.”

I didn’t either. “Oh? You were great in The Plus-One Pact, by the way.”

“Yeah, I really loved that project. Did you hear? It’s picked up for a sequel.”

The exchange is polite. Friendly, even. But the air between us twists.