Chapter 155: Gentleman Never Forgets

Chapter 155: Gentleman Never Forgets

Grayson studied me for a long moment before the corners of his mouth slowly lifted into a knowing smile. Not smug. Not victorious. Just... suspiciously unsurprised. He slipped both hands into the pockets of his coat, looking entirely too calm for a man who had just been rejected for an international trip. "You know," he said at last, his voice warm with quiet amusement, "I had a feeling you'd say no." I blinked. "You... did?" "Mm." He nodded once. "I was expecting it." My eyebrows climbed. "Then why ask?" "Because there was always a chance you'd surprise me." I folded my arms, trying very hard not to feel guilty. "Sorry to disappoint." "You didn't." His smile widened ever so slightly. "Actually..." He tilted his head, studying me with an expression that immediately activated every survival instinct I possessed. "...there is something I'd like to remind you of." My stomach dropped. "Why," I asked cautiously, taking one tiny step backward, "do I suddenly dislike that sentence?" His eyes sparkled with unmistakable amusement. "Because," he answered, "you already know what I'm going to say." I frowned. "...No, I don't." "You do." "I really don't." "Think back," he said gently. "To the amusement park."
The world stopped. Every sound around us seemed to vanish beneath the horrifying screech of my own memory. The amusement park. The carnival stalls. The impossible game. The giant crowd that had gathered. My confident laughter as I had watched him pick up the darts. My complete certainty that he was about to embarrass himself. Then... his infuriatingly calm smile. My eyes widened another fraction. "...No," I whispered. Grayson merely waited. "No," I repeated, louder this time, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Absolutely not." He hadn't even said anything yet, but somehow I already knew. My brain had connected the dots with terrifying efficiency. I could practically hear tiny alarm bells ringing inside my skull. Somewhere deep within my subconscious, an emergency committee had gathered around a conference table. Agenda Item One: We Are In Serious Trouble.
The memory returned in painful, crystal-clear detail. We'd been standing beside that ridiculous carnival stall, surrounded by flashing lights, the smell of popcorn, and I loudly declaring that Grayson had "the competitive instincts of an overachieving penguin."A decision that, in hindsight, deserved its own chapter in Poor Life Choices: Volume One. Then he'd smiled—calm, confident, devastatingly certain—and said the words that now echoed through my head with the force of a courtroom verdict. "If I win, you have to do whatever I choose." At the time I'd laughed. Of course I'd laughed. The man was holding three tiny balls. What was the worst that could happen? Apparently... this.
I slowly lowered my hand and stared at him in complete betrayal. "...You've been planning this." Grayson blinked innocently. "Planning what?"
 "This!" I waved both arms dramatically between us. "Psychological warfare!"
 "I wouldn't call it that."
 "I would."
 "You agreed to the bet."
 "My past self was clearly suffering from carnival-induced optimism." 
"You seemed quite confident."
 "Exactly!" I exclaimed. "Confidence is dangerous. History has proven that repeatedly." He bit back a smile. "So you do remember."
 "Remember?" I placed a hand over my heart. "Grayson, I remember it the way people remember natural disasters." I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "I should've known there was a reason you insisted on winning that ridiculous game." "I didn't insist." "You absolutely insisted." "You challenged me." "...Details."
I began pacing small circles on the sidewalk, muttering under my breath as though preparing my own legal defense. "No. No, this can't possibly be enforceable." Grayson watched with open amusement. "Enforceable?" "Obviously." I nodded to myself. "Amusement park wagers fall under highly questionable legal jurisdiction." "Do they?" "Absolutely." I started counting on my fingers. "First, there was excessive carnival noise, which impaired my judgment. Second, I had consumed cotton candy, which contains approximately ninety-eight percent poor decision-making. Third..." I paused dramatically. "...I had just come off the ferris wheel." "You had." "Exactly. My brain was still rearranging itself." "I see." "Fourth," I continued, growing more confident by the second, "I did not have legal representation present." One of his eyebrows lifted. "Legal representation?" "Yes." I nodded firmly. "Elliot would've objected immediately." I paused. "...Actually, Elliot probably would've encouraged the bet because he enjoys watching my life become unnecessarily complicated." Grayson laughed softly. "That's probably true." "See?" I pointed triumphantly. "The witness is biased. Therefore, the entire agreement should be declared emotionally invalid."
He let me continue my increasingly desperate argument for another minute, his laughter growing quieter until he finally shook his head with a fond smile. "Liela." "I'm not finished." "I know." "There are still several constitutional issues I intend to raise." "I'm sure there are." "Including but not limited to..." I inhaled dramatically. "...the emotional damages caused by oversized stuffed bears hanging from carnival booths." His smile deepened. "May I speak now?" I sighed as though granting an audience to an exceptionally persistent lawyer. "...Fine." He took one step closer, his voice gentle enough that my theatrical outrage immediately began losing momentum. "You're right." I blinked. "...I am?" "I did win the bet." "I knew it," I groaned, throwing my head back toward the sky. "This is how I perish. Defeated by carnival games." He chuckled before continuing, "And I'd like to use it." My heart performed a dramatic somersault. I stared at him, already preparing for the words Come to Scotland with me. Instead, he met my gaze steadily and said, "I want you to promise me one thing." I waited. "Don't answer today."
I frowned in confusion. "...What?" "Don't tell me no because you're scared of stepping into something unfamiliar." His voice remained calm, carrying none of the teasing from a moment ago. "Think about it properly. Give yourself a few days. If, after that, you still don't want to come..." He offered me a small, reassuring smile. "...I'll respect your decision completely." For several seconds, I simply stared at him. That... wasn't what I'd expected at all. I'd prepared for negotiations. I'd drafted imaginary legal appeals. I'd nearly convinced myself I needed to flee the country before he could invoke amusement park law. Instead, all he'd asked for was time. My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "...You're..." I pointed at him, thoroughly flustered. "...criminally reasonable." A quiet laugh escaped him. "I've been called many things." I shook my head in disbelief, unable to suppress the reluctant smile tugging at my lips. "You know," I muttered, "you're making it incredibly difficult to stay dramatic." His eyes warmed as he looked at me. "I can live with that." And somehow, despite every argument I'd rehearsed and every excuse I'd so carefully assembled, I found myself wondering whether Scotland had really seemed quite as impossible as I'd convinced myself it was.
For a few quiet moments, neither of us spoke. The bustling Manhattan sidewalk flowed around us like a river, people weaving past with shopping bags, takeaway coffees, and destinations infinitely more ordinary than standing in the middle of an existential crisis disguised as a conversation. I shifted my tote bag higher onto my shoulder, still trying—and failing—to reconcile the fact that Grayson had somehow managed to turn a carnival bet into the most reasonable request imaginable. It was deeply unfair. I'd spent the last ten minutes constructing an elaborate defense worthy of an international courtroom, only for him to dismantle it by... being considerate. Honestly, it was almost rude. I was just about to accuse him of emotional sabotage when the sharp vibration of a phone cut through the comfortable silence. Grayson slipped a hand into his coat pocket as the screen lit up. He glanced at the caller ID, and although his expression remained composed, I caught the nearly imperceptible sigh that escaped him before he answered. "Excuse me," he said apologetically. I nodded, taking a polite step away while he accepted the call.
"I'll be there shortly," I heard him say after listening for a few seconds. His voice was calm and professional now, the warm teasing tone replaced by the one that belonged to bestselling author Grayson Hale rather than the man who had just argued about imaginary amusement-park law with me. "No, that's fine. I understand." A brief pause. "Has everyone else arrived?" Another pause followed before he gave a small nod. "Good. Tell them I'll be there in twenty minutes." His gaze drifted toward me for the briefest moment, softening almost instinctively before returning to the conversation. "No, don't delay the meeting because of me. I'll join you as soon as I can." He listened again, murmured a quiet, "Thank you," and ended the call. For a second, he simply looked down at the now-dark screen, as though mentally rearranging the rest of his day. Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket and offered me an apologetic smile.
"I'm afraid I have to go." There was genuine regret in his voice, enough that I immediately felt guilty for silently celebrating the fact that fate had apparently intervened before my brain could make any more questionable decisions. "Work?" I asked. He nodded. "Unfortunately." I folded my arms. "Your manager again?" A faint chuckle escaped him. "No. The publisher." "Ah." I grimaced sympathetically. "Even scarier." "Occasionally." "They're making you attend meetings, aren't they?" His smile widened. "That's generally how publishing works." I clicked my tongue in disappointment. "Honestly, you'd think bestselling authors would earn the right to avoid conference rooms forever." "I've tried that argument." "And?" "It wasn't successful." I sighed dramatically. "A tragic injustice."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head before taking a slow step backward. "As entertaining as this has been..." His eyes met mine with unmistakable warmth. "...I really do have to leave." I gave an exaggerated sigh worthy of an award-winning stage performance. "Very well." I lifted one hand solemnly. "Go. Fulfill your mysterious author responsibilities." "Mysterious?" "Obviously." I nodded as though explaining something painfully obvious to a child. "Readers assume authors spend their days writing profound literature, but in reality you're all trapped in meetings discussing fonts and marketing schedules." "You'd be surprised how accurate that is." "See?" I pointed triumphantly. "I understand your people." "Our people?" "The publishing species." He smiled. "I'll inform the others we've been properly identified." "Please do. I'm sure they'll appreciate the recognition."
For another heartbeat neither of us moved. It wasn't awkward. If anything, the stillness felt unexpectedly comfortable, as though neither of us was in any particular hurry to end the conversation despite the phone call that had clearly interrupted it. Finally, Grayson reached into the inside pocket of his coat and retrieved a small business card. "One more thing," he said, holding it out to me. I accepted it curiously. It contained the itinerary for his upcoming Scotland tour, neatly printed with dates, cities, and event locations. "What's this for?" I looked up. "No pressure," he answered gently. "Just... keep it." My eyes moved back to the card. Edinburgh. Glasgow. Reader events. Book signings. Somehow seeing everything in black and white made the invitation feel even more real. "Take a few days," he continued. "Think about it." I looked back at him, and he offered the same patient smile he'd worn since the beginning of this conversation. "That's all I'm asking."
I let out a quiet breath before carefully slipping the itinerary into my tote bag. "All right," I admitted. "I'll think about it." His expression softened, not with triumph, but with quiet appreciation. "Thank you." I narrowed my eyes playfully. "Don't look so pleased. I only agreed to think." "I know." "Thinking is not the same as agreeing." "I'm aware." "I reserve the right to panic repeatedly." "I expected nothing less." I couldn't help smiling. "Good." He took another step backward, raising one hand in farewell. "I'll see you soon, Liela." "Try not to let the publisher schedule twelve meetings before lunch," I called after him. "No promises." With that, he turned and disappeared into the steady stream of pedestrians, his tall figure gradually blending into the moving crowd. I remained where I was for another moment, watching until he vanished around the corner. Then I looked down at my tote bag, where the Scotland itinerary now rested, and muttered to myself with a long-suffering sigh, "I knew I should've let him not win that stupid carnival game."