Page 109 of PR Stunt

Grayson laughs under his breath, reclining lazily. “No way. Everyone knows the first movie is the best and should stop there. Shrek one is superior.”

I gape at him. “Superior? No way. Shrek three has the introduction of the adorable dronkeys.”

He gives me a funny look.

“You know,” I say, gesturing. “The baby dragon-donkeys.”

Grayson lets out a laugh, his head falling back, the sound rich and unrestrained. And for a second, I forget everything else because it’s beautiful.

He shakes his head, still grinning. “You’re such a nerd.”

I lift my chin, teasing. “You know I’m right. Everyone wants a dronkey.”

“You’re a dronkey.” He grins and then tugs my hand. “Come on. Dance with me.”

I look around. “Again? And what… Right here?”

He stands, offering his hand, a playful glint in his eyes. “Humor me, Miss Grace.”

I hesitate for half a second before slipping my hand into his. He tugs me up and then reaches for his sunglasses, sliding them off. Then, just as quickly, he reaches for mine, gently pulling them from my face. His gaze meets mine, clear and open in the warm glow of the evening. The sun is now just a sliver on the horizon, painting the world in gold and deep, burning orange. The boat sways beneath us, moving with the rhythm of the water. Slow music drifts from the speaker, wrapping around us.

Grayson wraps his arm around my waist, steadying me as he guides me through the steps. I follow his lead, the rhythm of the music syncing with the sway of the boat and the warmth of his palm holding me in place. I turn beneath his arm, the breeze catching the hem of my skirt, his fingertips grazing my back as I spin.

A quiet laugh escapes me, and I tilt my head back slightly. “Oh, Miranda and Anna are going to love this.”

Grayson doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, his expression unreadable, the sunset casting shadows across his face. We move slower now, barely dancing, just swaying in time with the boat. I rest my hand lightly on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath my palm. His other hand is secure at my lower back, holding me close. The beach is coming into view, the glow of the shore growing brighter, the boat drifting closer.

“Thank you,” I murmur quietly.

Grayson’s brows lift slightly. “For what?”

I hesitate and then meet his gaze. “For…normalcy. For letting me feel comfortable enough to just be.”

His grip at my back tightens just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against my spine. His eyes soften when they meet mine. “You don’t have to let yourself,” he says, voice low, sure. “Not with me.”

The boat rocks gently, the waves lapping against the hull, and the music is still playing softly in the background. I let myself believe him, even though it’s been far too long since I’ve let myself believe anyone.

The staff dock smoothly, the boat rocking slightly as the crew secures it. Grayson and I slip our sandals back on and then step off the boat, murmuring thank-yous to the staff before heading down the pier. The night in Sayulita is alive. Warm golden lights are strung between buildings, glowing against the cobblestone streets. Laughter spills from open-air restaurants, where people linger over half-finished margaritas and platters of fresh seafood. Music rises from different directions. Guitar chords. A saxophone. The pulse of something more upbeat comes from a club down the road.

There’s a pleasant buzz in my limbs, a mix of tequila, salt air, and the freedom of not having to think too hard. Grayson’s hand finds mine again, absentmindedly, out of routine. We walk down the pier, but instead of heading toward where we parked the scooter, he tugs me in the opposite direction.

I glance at him. “Uh, wrong way?”

His lips twitch. “Nope. Now it’s time you really see Sayulita.”

I let him lead me through the winding streets, past tucked-away surf shops and boutiques, before stopping in front of a small bar nestled between two buildings. It’s unassuming, with no flashy signs, just an open doorway spilling warm light onto the street. Inside, it’s all exposed brick and dark wood, with a long bar stretching along one side and a few scattered high-top tables in the back. A couple sways near the bar, moving in sync with the beat of a song spilling from the overhead speakers. Nearby, a group of friends crowd around a dartboard, playful shouts ringing out over the music.

It’s small and feels like a local spot. Grayson walks straight up to the bar and orders us drinks. He passes me my margarita, and with his beer in one hand, he takes my free hand in his other, pulling me through the bar to the back, where a small, two-person high-top table sits tucked against the wall. Beside us, the group is laughing as they take turns throwing darts. Someone lands a bullseye, and the whole bar erupts in cheers.

Grayson pulls out my chair, his palm grazing my lower back as I sit.

“This,” he says, taking the seat across from me, “is Sayulita.”

To our left, a pool table sits under a dim overhead light. Two guys play a casual game, pausing between shots to sip their beers. The rhythmic clack of the balls cuts through the steady hum of conversation. I lean back in my chair, fingers tracing the salted rim of my margarita glass. My gaze shifts to the pool table again, just in time to see one of the guys scratch. He groans while his friend laughs and shakes his head. A few moments later, they gather the balls, finish the last of their drinks, and wander off toward the bar.

“Let’s play.”

He huffs out a laugh, standing. “Show me what you got, sweetheart.”