Page 38 of PR Stunt

“The ending was my highlight, babe. If I had to guess, you seemed a little flustered.”

“Yeah, well, you’re in the wrong, and I’d really appreciate it if we never talk about that again.”

One brow lifts, slow and deliberate, like he already knows exactly what that reaction means.

Then, without warning, his hand closes around my wrist. Not rough, just certain. My breath catches despite myself. He pulls me forward in one easy motion until I’m standing between his knees, the edge of the counter pressing lightly into my stomach.

Too close.

Close enough to catch the faint salt still clinging to his skin from outside. Close enough to notice the shift in his expression, something quieter now, less teasing.

He looks down at me, and I tilt my chin up before I can think better of it. His gaze drops to my mouth, brief but unmistakable, and then drags back to my eyes.

My chest tightens.

He tilts his head slightly. “Such a pretty little liar, Miss Grace.”

His thumb shifts once against the inside of my wrist, barely there, somehow worse than if he had held tighter.

I pull my arm back, pulse hammering hard enough to feel in my throat. “I’m going upstairs to change. And then we’re leaving to get these car pictures over with.”

Even to my own ears, it comes out thinner than I want it to.

I turn on my heel and storm toward the stairs, ignoring the sound of his chuckle trailing behind me. Still fuming, I march into my closet and glare at my dresser like it personally offended me. I yank open a drawer and grab a fitted tank top, followed by a pair of vintage-wash jeans. If I have to pose with him, I’m sure as hell not doing it looking anything less than good. Tossing the clothes onto my ottoman, I strip off my workout attire and swap it for the new outfit.

I pause, peaking at my perfumes lined up. I sniff my wrist. I smell fine. Better than fine. A little sunscreen, maybe. Not even remotely tumbleweed-adjacent. I grab my perfume and spritz my neck and wrists.

Just to be safe, I tell myself.

Jogging down the stairs, I stop short halfway. Grayson is at the bottom, posture relaxed, one foot crossed over the other. He lifts his head as I descend, gaze following me with that slow look. I walk past him, ignoring the way his gaze stays on me, arms crossed like he didn’t just compare me to a desert plant. I slide on my sneakers, grab my phone, and reach for my Bronco keys. My fingers have barely brushed them when a hand closes over mine.

“We’re taking the bike.”

I rip my hand away and whirl around. “Not a chance.”

Grayson arches a brow, like he expected that.

I cross my arms. “It’s unsafe. Cars exist for a reason. Have you seen how people drive in l.a.?”

“So it’s about safety?”

Yes. Obviously.

The schedule clearly said car pictures, not bike. But the real problem is that I can barely handle being in the same room as him. The thought of being on the bike with him, my legs on either side of his, my arms wrapped around his torso, his voice right in my ear. Way too close for comfort.

I straighten my spine. “The schedule says car. Not bike.”

Grayson lets out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head like I’m the unreasonable one. He turns and walks straight out the front door, blatantly ignoring me.

“I don’t even have a helmet!” I call after him.

He doesn’t stop or look back. Just keeps walking. I step outside, ready to argue. Then I see it. A second helmet, strapped to the back of his bike. Dammit. He had this planned the entire time.

“Seriously?”

Grayson just grins, unhooking it and holding it out toward me.

I fold my arms. “With that helmet, no one’ll even know it’s me. Just another faceless fling, right?”