Grace's POV
I froze mid-step, my pulse hammering against my throat. Terror gripped me completely. How could this stranger possibly know what to call me? He'd even said it twice! Was he some kind of stalker? I wanted to bolt, but my limbs had turned to stone. Every muscle refused to cooperate, leaving me helpless as I watched him—convinced he was about to pounce.
Instead, he remained sprawled casually in the same position, that mocking sparkle dancing in his gaze.
Not an ounce of aggression radiated from him. At least not yet.
I wondered what was going through his mind. His playful attitude clashed strangely with the trio of empty bourbon bottles scattered around him. Nobody truly content would be downing that much alcohol solo. I was certain of this—after all, I found myself in identical circumstances.
That realization sparked my curiosity.
"H—How do you know what to call me?" I stammered. "Are you stalking me?"
He remained silent, studying me with that penetrating stare until a quiet chuckle escaped him. "Why? Would you like to be stalked?"
"Cut the games!" I snapped. I wished I'd never started this exchange. He hadn't harmed me, but I couldn't decipher his motives either. "Tell me how you learned my name or I'm dialing 911!"
"Pfft—hahaha!" The young man exploded into rich laughter, as though my terror was the most amusing spectacle he'd witnessed. "Alright, alright, my apologies. I was browsing through the office and spotted your name on some paperwork sitting on the CEO's desk."
My gaze flicked toward the desk where an old proposal I'd written for the deceased CEO still lay. It had remained untouched since Mr. Benjamin's fatal car crash.
"Well, now we're acquainted. Why not spend the evening with me, Gracie? Nothing harmful about loosening up and enjoying yourself occasionally." The stranger's proposal—along with his smoldering stare—somehow made my heart skip. I swallowed hard and finally examined the man thoroughly from top to bottom.
His blonde locks gleamed almost golden beneath the office lighting, accentuating his piercing green eyes. They held a gleam that reminded me of dark emeralds set in ancient royal crowns. Everything else about him was equally captivating. He possessed flawless features I'd never encountered in another man—his carved aquiline nose, prominent cheekbones, sharp jawline, and healthy bronze complexion all belonged on a magazine cover. Plus, he clearly maintained an athletic physique judging by how snugly his suit fit. His buttons appeared ready to burst at any second. I couldn't tear my eyes away.
This man was so devastatingly handsome that I suspected he might work as a professional model.
This was Los Angeles, after all. Even surrounded by countless gorgeous aspiring models and actors, he commanded attention. He could turn any sidewalk into his personal catwalk with his jaw-dropping perfection. Next to him, Charles appeared ordinary and forgettable, even repulsive.
The stark contrast between the two men made me understand what an absolute idiot I'd been to squander five years on Charles. It didn't require brilliance to understand why he'd never succeeded in entertainment. Even at his peak, he couldn't match this half-intoxicated stranger's natural magnetism.
'And Charles lacks any talent or dedication to make up for his mediocrity,' I reminded myself.
The man facing me reclined against the sofa, deliberately displaying some muscle. One glance at his cocky grin told me it was intentional. He enjoyed my attention.
So I continued watching. His shirt's top buttons hung open, exposing his sculpted bronze chest. My eyes hungrily traveled downward before settling on his powerful thighs. I had a weakness for men with strong thighs.
But something else left me breathless, taunting me like the serpent inked on his arm.
His legs were positioned as if inviting—no, challenging—me to look between them. And I accepted the dare. His prominent bulge revealed he was thoroughly aroused and impressively endowed. It would probably grow even larger once freed from those restrictive jeans.
And it already dwarfed Charles's.
The man chuckled. "Enjoying what you see?"
His voice jolted me from my trance. I immediately shook my head to dispel those inappropriate thoughts.
"Just because you know what to call me doesn't make us buddies," I began with manufactured confidence. "I don't care if you were dispatched by corporate or you're some new hire I haven't met. Hell, I couldn't care less if you're trespassing! I'll just spend my evening elsewhere!"
"By yourself?" The man finally displayed some concern. "Why would a heartbroken woman want to spend the night solo? I could provide company here."
"I'm not heartbroken! Don't pretend you understand me."
"Right, sure," the man scoffed. "Your eyes are red-rimmed, your hair and makeup are streaked disasters, and your blazer is completely wrinkled. Plus you're barefoot. I think it's fairly clear that you're hurting."
I couldn't argue with his assessment. I knew I looked like a complete wreck currently. But so what? I didn't need his sympathy. I didn't need any man's sympathy.
"Just because I'm hurting doesn't give you permission to behave like a pervert," I snarled as the image of Amara riding Charles forced itself back into my mind. The ecstasy on my sister's face was unmistakable and I couldn't suppress the disgust rising within me. "I'm not some easy target."
"Hmm? Who mentioned wanting to screw right now? I simply want to keep you company," the man responded casually. "We could spend the night drinking your wine and lamenting our troubles. When morning arrives, we'll be strangers once more."
I hesitated, doubting his words. They seemed too perfect to believe, yet I desperately wanted to trust them. I ached to be heard, to be understood. To have someone—anyone—share my pain and anxieties. To receive what Charles and Amara had so viciously stolen from me.
It was as though the stranger could read my mind. "Furthermore," he added, "I believe you need someone to listen, correct? Your position as chief editor must be incredibly stressful."
He was offering me a reason to remain. I weighed his proposal while continuing to watch him suspiciously, trying to decode his true intentions.
My instincts suggested he meant no harm. And he was correct. I did want—no, needed—to unleash my frustrations.
'Screw it, I'm not going to waste my remaining brain cells obsessing over this guy.'
So I surrendered and approached the enigmatic man. Before settling down across from him, I set my bag of wine bottles on the coffee table and warned, "I'm here to get wasted and complain about my issues. Nothing beyond that. Don't get any perverted notions."
The man smiled. "I won't get any perverted notions if you don't."