Page 129 of PR Stunt

Pancake mix. Syrup. Cinnamon.

I stack everything against my chest until I’m carrying more than necessary and then dump it onto the kitchen island in a loose pile. My hands find my hips. How hard can breakfast be? It’s breakfast. Not exactly a five-course meal. Besides, Hailey keeps my pantry stocked like she’s quietly preparing for some domestic emergency at all times, so unless I somehow manage to ruin pancake batter, I should survive this.

I cross to the entryway table near the front door, grabbing my headphones where I left them the day before. A second later, music fills my ears, something playful enough that my shoulders loosen instantly. Back at the fridge, I pull out eggs, milk, butter, bacon, orange juice, and the carton of blueberries before nudging the door shut with my hip. The sleeves of Grayson’s shirt hang past my hands, so I roll them twice and then twist my hair into a messy bun before setting the bacon into a pan.

The first crackle hits the quiet kitchen just as I start mixing batter. The milk splashes over the measuring cup. Is there such a thing as too much milk? Surely not. I glance down at it suspiciously and then decide it looks close enough and drop in a handful of blueberries. Bread goes into the toaster. Orange juice gets poured into two glasses without me thinking about it until after I’ve already done it.

That makes me pause for half a second. Then I smile. I turn back toward the stove, swaying slightly to the music as I reach for my espresso again, taking another sip while sunlight spills across the marble island and turns the whole kitchen gold.

The bacon crackles in the pan as I stand at the stove, humming quietly now, hips moving absently with the music still playing in my ears. One pancake is already done. The second is suspiciously uneven but salvageable.

I flip the bacon, reach behind me toward the island without looking, searching for the spatula I know I just set down…and freeze. My pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts, my whole body tightening before I even turn, instinct arriving faster than reason.

By the time I spin around, one hand already pressed flat against my chest, Grayson is standing a few feet away near the island, barefoot, wearing nothing but black boxers, his hair still sleep messy, his expression shifting the second he sees my face. That tiny reaction doesn’t escape him.

I pull one headphone free, exhaling shakily.

“Good morning,” I say, the words landing a little thinner than I mean them to.

His mouth softens immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I force my shoulders to loosen, willing my heartbeat back down.

“It’s fine.” I glance back at the stove like I can recover faster if I pretend nothing happened. “Apparently my nervous system just enjoys humiliating me now.”

That earns the smallest smile from him. Then his gaze drops to his shirt—the one currently on my body. A slow warmth climbs my neck as his gaze lingers on the fabric hanging loose over my thighs, the sleeves rolled messily to my elbows.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, turning back to the pan. “I’m making breakfast.” I tug the other headphone free and set it on the counter beside my coffee.

When I glance at him again, something in his expression has changed. Softer. Almost like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s seeing. He moves around the island and comes to stand beside me, close enough that heat gathers instantly along my arm. His fingers find my wrist lightly, turning my hand just enough to inspect it. That’s when I notice there’s pancake batter on my fingertip. His gaze lifts to mine, something amused flickering there before he brings my hand toward him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he closes his mouth around my finger. My breath catches instantly. He lets go slowly, a faint smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“Very domestic of you,” he murmurs.

He slides his hand to my waist and gently pulls me closer. The spatula stays loose in my hand, forgotten instantly as I tilt my face up toward him. He’s already looking at me in that way that makes everything inside me soften, like he still hasn’t fully stopped taking in the fact that he’s here, in my kitchen, while I stand in his shirt, wishing I brushed my teeth. A small smile pulls at my mouth before I lean in first. I catch his bottom lip gently between mine, holding it there for a second, my free arm slipping around his middle as I press closer. His breath leaves him softly, almost like he felt that somewhere deeper than a kiss should reach. Then he bends his head and kisses me properly.

Slow. Unhurried. Sincere in a way that makes my chest ache.

He lifts one hand to my jaw, brushing his thumb lightly along my cheek as his mouth moves against mine with quiet patience, like he’s still learning this version of us too and doesn’t want to rush a second of it. When he catches my lower lip in return, gentle and deliberate, I melt a little against him. For a moment, the only sounds are the soft crackle from the stove and the ocean beyond the glass doors. I pull back enough to look at him, still close enough to feel his warmth.

“Okay, sous chef,” I say, lifting the spatula toward him. “Can you grab plates and cutlery?”

A laugh slips out of him, low and warm, his hand still resting at my waist.

“Ah,” he says, smiling like he’s found something he’d been waiting for. “There she is.”

I narrow my eyes, turning back toward the stove before he can see how much that smile does to me. The pancake barely survives my next flip, landing crooked in the pan. Behind me, I feel him move before I hear him. Then his hand lands lightly against my ass.

I jerk, half startled, half laughing, as I turn my head enough to glare at him over my shoulder. “Gray!”

His grin only widens as he reaches for the plates.

The worst part is the heat that instantly climbs my neck, because if he notices how little I hated that, I’ll never hear the end of it. He moves around my kitchen, pulling plates from the cupboard after I point him in the right direction, grabbing cutlery, and then reaching for the sourdough just as it pops from the toaster. I watch him butter it while pretending I’m focused on the bacon. By the time everything is finished, the island looks excessive. Pancakes with blueberries. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Orange juice. Coffee. I carry the last plate to the dining table while he follows with the rest. For a second, looking at it all spread out between us, something catches unexpectedly in my chest. I’ve never had a home-cooked meal at my dining table, and it feels…absurdly normal. In the best possible way.

Grayson leans back slightly in his chair, coffee mug in hand, studying me over the rim.

“So,” he says, voice easy now, softer than usual. “What do you feel like doing today, Miss Grace?”

I glance up from cutting into my pancake.