“So.” Grayson waits until the waiter leaves, then reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. “I was thinking. After dinner, we could go back to my suite. Have a drink. Really talk.”
I slide my hand away, reaching for my water glass. “I’m pretty tired, actually. Early call time tomorrow.”
“You’re always tired.” His fingers find my knee under the table. “Come on, Charlie. Don’t you think it’s time we considered taking things to the next level?”
“There is no next level.” I shift my leg away from his touch. “This is a PR arrangement, Grayson. That’s all it’s ever been.”
His face flickers with anger, maybe, or wounded pride. It’s gone so fast I almost miss it, replaced by that practiced smile.
“Right. The PR arrangement.” He picks up his fork, stabbing at his foam sculpture. “The one where you get to use my name to boost your concert sales and I get…what, exactly?”
“You get the same thing I get. Good press. Visibility. That’s the deal.”
“The deal.” He laughs, but it’s mirthless. “You know what’s funny? Before your scandal, I was the one doing you a favor. Dating America’s sweetheart, elevating your brand. But now suddenly you’re the hot commodity, and I’m just the accessory.”
I stare at him. “That’s not?—”
“Haven’t the tour sales like tripled? Your streams are up. You’re trending every other day.” He jabs his fork in my direction. “And where does that leave me? Following you around like a puppy, pretending to be supportive while you soak up all the attention.”
“No one asked you to follow me around.”
“Sage asked me. Your whole team asked me. ‘Be visible, Grayson. Look supportive, Grayson. Post about her show, Grayson.’” His tone has gone acidic. “I’ve been doing everything they asked, and what do I get? My notifications are full of people calling me your arm candy. Asking what I bring to the relationship. Making fucking memes about how you could do better.”
So that’s what this is about. Not attraction. Not interest. Ego.
“I’m sorry the internet is being mean to you,” I say carefully. “But that’s not really something I can control.”
“No?” He leans forward, eyes glittering. “Because it seems like you could control it if you wanted to. Post about me more. Talk about me in interviews. Make it clear that I’m the prize here, not just some supporting character in the Charlie Riley show.”
“Grayson—”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” His voice rises slightly, drawing a glance from the next table. “To be constantly compared to you? To have people analyze every photo, every comment, every interaction to see if I measure up? I’m a moviestar, Charlie. I’ve been in this industry since I was fifteen. And now I’m being treated like your plus-one.”
I should feel bad for him. On some level, I understand the frustration—the industry is brutal, and comparison is a knife that cuts everyone eventually. But shouldn’t our shared commiseration be making us better friends instead of enemies?
“I think,” I say slowly, “that maybe this arrangement isn’t working for either of us.”
His expression shifts. Hardens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means maybe we should talk to our PR teams about winding this down. Finding a graceful exit.”
“A graceful exit.” He laughs again, that sharp, humorless sound. “You mean you want to dump me. Publicly. After everything I’ve done for your image.”
“I’m not dumping you?—”
“Save it.” He throws his napkin on the table and signals for the check. “We have a contract. You want out? Fine. But don’t think for a second I’m going to make it easy for you. I know things, Charlie. About your little secrets. Your bodyguard with the wandering hands.”
My blood goes cold. “What are you talking about?”
“Please. I’m not blind.” His smile is cruel now, all pretense stripped away. “The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. It’s obvious to anyone paying attention. And trust me, people are paying attention. Know what they’re saying? That you’re either an idiot or a whore. Depends on who is pursuing who here.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I don’t actually care, by the way.” He stands. “Keep your secrets. Fuck your bodyguard. Do whatever you want. But if you try to make me look bad on the way out, I will bury you.” He leans close, his breath hot against my ear. “Got it?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My throat has closed around the words.
Grayson buttons his jacket with practiced fingers, and like flipping a switch, his face rearranges into the camera-ready smile that’s launched a thousand movie posters. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ve lost my appetite. Let’s get this over with.”
