Charlie is two hours away.
And Grayson better enjoy his stupid artisan hot coffee while he can. Because once I get there, he’ll be wearing it.
chapter 23
Charlie
Crystal chandeliers sparkle prismatic light across white tablecloths. The silverware handles are cut from crystal, too, looking more art than utensil. Every table is occupied by people who look like they stepped out of a magazine spread—perfect hair, designer clothes, the kind of effortless elegance that comes from never having to worry about money.
I hate it here.
Grayson sits across from me, looking annoyingly at ease in his tailored jacket and open-collared shirt. He’s been talking for twenty minutes about some director who wants him for a prestige project, and I’ve been nodding along while my mind wanders to Taio’s unanswered calls.
Two voicemails. I saw them when I got out of the shower, but by then I was already running late for this dinner and Grayson was pounding on my hotel room door. I’ll call him back after. I’ll explain.
“—and then Spielberg said—are you even listening?”
I blink. “Sorry. What?”
Grayson’s jaw tightens. “I said, Spielberg personally requested a meeting. But sure, keep staring at your phone like a teenager.”
“I wasn’t staring at my phone.” I set it face-down on the table to prove my point. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long week of rehearsals. I thought you were taking the whole team out to dinner. The dancers, vocalists, Sage, Marcus?”
“What can I say? They were all busy.” His stupid smirk is an admission of his lie. He set me up. “So how are you feeling?”
“Good, actually. I think I’m still kind of on this high. Tampa was?—”
“Yeah, Charlie,” he cuts me off. “The videos are everywhere. Very impressive.”
He doesn’t sound impressed. He sounds irritated. Like my success is somehow an inconvenience to him.
“Thanks,” I say flatly.
My phone buzzes against the tablecloth. I turn it over automatically to glance at the screen—another notification from some social media app—and Grayson’s eyes narrow.
“You need to stop checking that thing.”
“I’m not checking it. It just buzzed.” Except I open the notification that I was tagged in a picture of the very restaurant we’re eating at. The caption? #noshamestalking #graysonandcharlie
My stomach drops. “Grayson. Did you post our location?”
“No. I just said where we were eating. What’s it matter? Our followers?” He scoffs. “It’s not like they can afford to get in.”
I exhale, lips parted, the real-life version of the shaking-my-head emoji. “We talked about this. You can’t keep broadcasting our location. It’s actually dangerous. Not to mention the paparazzi are always aggressive to me. I hate it.”
“Relax.” He rolls his eyes. “They can’t bring cameras inside. The maître d’ practically strip-searched everyone at the door.”
“That’s not the point. When we leave?—”
“When we leave, we smile and wave and give them what they want.” He leans back in his chair, spreading his arms like he’s addressing an audience. “That’s how this works, Charlie. You want the fame, you deal with the attention.”
“I don’t want—” I stop myself. Take a breath. “I’m just saying, I like my dinners without an ambush waiting outside.”
“And I’m just saying, you’re acting like I committed a crime. You need to calm down. It’s a few Instagram stories. It’s not a big deal.”
Calm down.The phrase that has never, in the history of human communication, actually calmed anyone down.
The waiter appears with our entrées—some kind of architectural foam situation for him, a delicate fish dish for me—and I use the interruption to compose myself. This is fine. Two hours, maybe less. Smile for the cameras on the way out, then I can go back to my hotel and call Taio and pretend this evening never happened.
