Page 85 of PR Stunt

I step out of my heels, unclasping them and leaving them near the door. The cool floor meets my bare feet, and I sigh, letting the chill seep in.

Grayson is already walking toward the kitchen, his voice carrying back to me. “I’d say there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

I press my lips together in something close to amusement. Touché. Pushing off the couch, I follow him into the kitchen, my gaze sweeping over the space. Dark stone counters, warm wood accents, a massive island. My eyes catch on the oven, and my brows lift in recognition. It’s the same one I have. Grayson glances at me, catching the flicker of realization before I even comment. His mouth curves slightly, a knowing nod, like he was expecting me to notice. But there’s one difference. The spice rack beside it is lined with glass jars, labels worn from handling.

A cutting board sits nearby, a knife resting against it.

I glance back at him. “You really cook?”

Grayson opens the fridge, pulling out ingredients with an ease that makes it clear this isn’t for show. “What, you thought I survived on takeout and charm?”

I shrug, leaning against the counter. “More like protein bars and ego.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Then he gestures toward a barstool. “Sit.”

He starts moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands steady as he grabs more ingredients from the fridge. I watch him in a way I haven’t before. I slide onto one of the chairs at the kitchen island, but the moment I do, discomfort tightens around my ribs. My corset, laced snug for the gala, is making it impossible to sit comfortably. I shift slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but it’s no use.

Grayson glances up mid-cooking. “One sec.”

The question is already forming when he wipes his hands on a cloth and steps away, taking the stairs two at a time upstairs. I turn my attention to the view. From up here, the city sprawls beneath us, glittering like a million tiny stars. It’s so high up and private. His own world tucked into the mountain. A minute later, I hear his footsteps again. He walks past tween my fingers and feeling the soft fabric.

I glance up at him, one brow arching. “Are you just trying to get me undressed?”

Grayson doesn’t pause as he cracks an egg into the pan. Then, in a voice that’s all dark velvet and danger, he says, “If I wanted you undressed, Charlie, I’d be the one doing it.”

My stomach tightens and unfortunately not from hunger. For some reason, the way he says my name—Charlie, instead of Miss Grace, instead of sweetheart or some other teasing moniker—sends warmth curling through my toes. I stand, ignoring the way my pulse trips. I slide my opera gloves off, setting them down on the kitchen island before pulling the hoodie over my head. It falls past my knees, the sleeves draping over my hands. It’s so big, it swallows me whole, engulfing me in his scent. God, it smells so good. Turning my back to him, I carefully slip the dress off, letting it fall to the floor. I pick it up and drape it over the back of the couch. When I walk back to my seat, I catch him watching me. His gaze drags over my bare legs.

I narrow my eyes. “What? It’s just a hoodie.”

Grayson doesn’t falter. Still slicing through the sourdough with practiced precision, he tilts his head, a slow smile curving at the corners of his mouth. “Well, considering the way you just inhaled my hoodie, I think we both have secrets to keep.”

I grimace, cheeks warming, but I don’t take the bait. He’s still in his suit pants, white dress shirt slightly undone at the collar with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. It’s criminal, the way he looks like this while cutting bread, moving around his kitchen like it’s just as natural to him as a red carpet. Didn’t know a man who cooked would do it for me. I need to say something before my brain fully betrays me.

“So, cooking?” I say, testing the waters and tasting the shift between us. “That’s surprising, considering the whole child actor thing. You grew up on set. Crafty must have raised you.”

He doesn’t turn around, just keeps working, focused as he spreads butter over each slice before moving toward the stove. “Yeah, well,” he says, his tone light. “Turns out, I like homemade food.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

He flips the bread onto the pan, the sizzle filling the space between us. “It’s a good pastime,” he says, casual but certain. “People usually loosen up when there’s food involved.”

That is, without a doubt, the most in-depth and real thing I’ve ever heard him say. Grayson plates the eggs first, sliding them onto the thick, golden-brown sourdough. They’re soft and glossy, folding into themselves. He reaches for a wooden box, pinches a bit of flaky salt, and scatters it over the top. A sprinkle of chives, and then a few slices of prosciutto on the side.

He slides the plate toward me.

I glance up, brows raised. “You made me…breakfast?”

The smell alone is enough to make my stomach clench in anticipation.

Grayson plates his own, the same focus in every movement. “Breakfast is easy,” he says, like it’s just a casual remark, but then his voice dips slightly. “I didn’t have it a lot growing up—”

He stops, cutting himself off quickly. Then, with a small shake of his head, he says simply, “Eat.”

I’m still eyeing the food as if he’d poisoned me.

He shakes his head, chuckling as he picks up his own fork and takes a bite.

Okay, fine. It’s just a meal, Charlie.