Page 106 of PR Stunt

“Truce,” I try.

“Not a chance.”

He moves left. I mirror him. He moves right. I fall for it. By the time I realize what he’s doing, he lunges and catches me around the waist, pulling me toward him as we both collapse into laughter.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he says, handing me my phone.

“What?” I grin. “I was being generous, honestly.”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Come on. Boat’s waiting.”

A few minutes later, the dock creaks softly beneath my sandals. The breeze rolls in off the water. I’m thankful I opted to wear my hair up. I lower my sunglasses to get a better view of the approaching sailboat. It glides across the tide, white and elegant, golden light bouncing off its polished surface. Grayson squeezes my hand, and I glance over at him. He’s in white linen pants and an olive-green button-up, loose and open at the collar, with sleeves rolled up. A watch glints against his wrist, while sunglasses shield his eyes.

“You’re smiling.”

I blink, caught. I wasn’t even aware of it.

“I love sailboats.”

He hums, his thumb brushing against my skin. “Me too.”

A deckhand spots us approaching and waves us forward, signaling for us to board. As we step onto the boat, a crew member greets us with a warm smile, gesturing toward the small bar set up near the stern. Behind it, a bartender leans against the counter, already prepping drinks for the evening. Both of us pause to kick off our sandals. Grayson switches smoothly into Spanish, greeting the bartender with an easy confidence. He hands me a margarita and Grayson a beer.

“Come on,” Grayson says, tilting his head toward the front of the boat.

We step past the bar and onto the deck, the boat gently rocking beneath us as it drifts farther from shore. There’s no one else on board—just the two of us and the crew. The sun is sinking lower, casting a golden glow across the water. The sky is a soft blend of pink and orange. The sails catch the breeze, filling as we move. Grayson lowers himself onto the cushioned bench at the bow, stretching his legs out, his arm resting casually behind me. He lifts his beer toward me. “Salud, Charlie.”

I raise my drink, arching a brow. “To what?” I ask, settling beside him.

“To you, surf goddess of the Pacific.”

I roll my eyes, laughing. “Yeah, uh-huh. You just want the credit. Next time, you’ll be eating my surf.”

He chuckles, touching his bottle to my glass. “Next time, huh?”

But just as we go to drink, he glances away.

“Wait!” I say quickly. “Eyes!”

He blinks at me, confused. “What?”

“You have to lock eyes when you cheers,” I say, completely serious. “If you don’t, it’s seven years of bad sex.”

His brows shoot up, and then he laughs. “Oh God. Wouldn’t want that.”

We hold eye contact this time, smiling as we both take a sip.

Leaning back on one hand, I glance out at the water. “Yeah… Sayulita is pretty special. I can see why you love it so much,” I muse.

Grayson takes a slow pull from his beer, nodding. Then he leans back on his other hand, his shoulder brushing lightly against mine.

“I’m surprised you haven’t been cast in a surfing movie yet, actually,” I say, glancing at him.

“Yeah, it’s funny you say that,” he says. “Miranda sent me a script a couple of weeks ago. Got confirmed for the gig the day before we left.”

I arch a brow. “Oh yeah? Where’s it filming?”

“Fiji.”