“Menace Gr?—”
“Menace Grant, I know,” he finishes. “I think everyone here knows who you are.”
“You’d be surprised.” I grab his lanyard, looking down at the press pass. “You looking for a good headline, Mr.Journalist?”
His smile is slow, though his eyes hold a hint of excitement. “Actually yes. I was wondering?—”
“Menace!” Sya says, appearing out of fucking nowhere. “Come, you’re needed.” Before I can continue my conversation with Hill—and hopefully get his number—Sya drags me away.
Chapter Four
Hill
I’m still feelingshaky and a little starstruck meeting Menace Grant. While I thought he was handsome from afar, he’s fucking breathtaking up close. And that deep, smooth voice? God, he sounded better than he’s ever done in interviews.
Unfortunately, duty called and he had to go do…whatever he has to do.
I was so close to getting an interview set up, so close to getting inside information on his charity. He’s been very secretive about why it’s so important, but I’ve been known to pull the deepest secrets from the most tight-lipped source. I could have worked Menace to get the answers I’m dying to know.
And I won’t lie, I was also excited to be alone with him. He wouldn’t have gone for a guy as plain as me, but it would be nice to sit and talk to him like a person, not just fanboying over the man I think he is.
He touched me, though. My skin still tingles from where his fingers lightly dusted over my tattoo. I have half a mind to go to my artist and kiss her full on the lips for rendering something that Menace Grant thinks is beautiful.
But my artist is a married mother of three. I’m sure her husband wouldn’t look too kindly with me making out with his wife.
Since I probably won’t get the opportunity to talk to anyone else—or afford to buy any of the art on display—I pull my press pass from around my neck, stuff it in the inside breast pocket of my tux and start toward the door.
“Are you the help, dear?” An older woman stops me with a hand on my arm.
I look down at her, not even caring that she’s an octogenarian. Do I fucking look like the help? I’m dressed to the nines just like everyone else here. Why would she ask me a question like that?
“No,” I answer bluntly, dropping my arm so she lets me go.
“Of course you are,” she asserts, waving me off. “Here. Take this. You might win something that’ll pull you out of your squalor.” She pushes a ticket in my hand and leaves without another word.
What the fuck was that?
Scoffing, I look down at the ticket she slid into my hand. It hasAre you a winner?on the front with a series of numbers at the bottom.
When we were invited to the event, it was a big deal that there would be a raffle instead of an actual auction. Something about people having more fun when they can outbid each other. But the organizer explained that a raffle would pull in more donations to countless charities. I also think they didn’t want to see pissing matches all night.
I turn toward the door to leave but then think better of it. If nothing else, I can jot down who won what and how much that person will donate to the charity in question. It won’t be the article my boss wants, but I wasn’t able to get shit tonightotherwise. This will at least generate a few leads so we can cold call someone for a quote on why they donated.
After this fucking auction, I’m going the fuck home. These people give me the ick.
I make my way back to the ballroom, where there’s a framed work of art on the stage. The emcee tells the crowd about it—who painted it, their background, how they can be reached and what charity they represent. I pull out my notepad and quickly make notes, trying to be as detailed as possible for the article.
I wonder if I’ll be allowed to get more information when the event is over.
Nope, no. I’m fucking leaving after this. I’m done with rich people for the night.
After the winner is announced for the painting, a statue is wheeled before everyone. Again, the emcee tells the crowd about it and announces the winner shortly after. Even though I try not to, I check the numbers at the bottom of my ticket to see if I won.
But come on, it’s not like I have a lot of spots to hang a painting or place a statue in the apartment Lucian and I share.
A few more pictures and pottery selections are shown before the emcee catches my attention when he says, “Now, everyone with a blue ticket, pay attention. Your donations have earned you the possibility of winning a private date with Menace Grant, a fashion and runway model that has donated over five million dollars to various charities, as well as funding his own.”
Holy shit. My mouth drops open as I watch Menace take the stage, a wide, but empty smile on his face. I grip my blue ticket like my life depends on it. I have no hope of winning, but being this close to the possibility is heady.
