Page 116 of PR Stunt

Grayson freezes. He stands there, totally still, as realization dawns. The employee clears his throat and slowly extends the room service tray. Grayson takes it with a nod before closing the door.

Then slowly, he turns back toward the bedroom, face blank. I take one look at him, bare chest, messy hair, and that bright-pink hydrating face mask still plastered across his face and lose it. Laughter bursts out of me, loud and uncontrollable. I clap a hand over my mouth, doubling over.

“That guy is definitely telling his coworkers about me.”

“You look like a dewy serial killer,” I wheeze.

My focus shifts instantly when I see what’s on the tray: fries and nachos.

I actually groan. “Oh my God.”

His lips twitch as he climbs back onto the bed. “That good?”

I reach for a fry immediately, popping it into my mouth. “Better.”

He watches me for a second and then plucks one up for himself, leaning back against the pillows.

He reaches for another fry, chewing thoughtfully. “Alright, what’s your ultimate comfort food?”

“Buttered noodles.”

He pauses mid-chew. “Like…just noodles and butter?”

I point at him with a fry. “And melted cheese in the microwave. Don’t judge me. It seriously kills and is the best girl dinner.”

His lips twitch. “Not judging. Just…intrigued.”

“What about you?”

He leans back against the headboard, considering. “Anything breakfast, really.”

“By the way, I hate to admit it, but your eggs were next level. No egg ick in sight.”

He laughs at that, but then something in his expression shifts, just slightly, like the weight of something heavier settling over him. His voice is quieter when he says, “Yeah. I got good at breakfast.”

I tilt my head, watching him. “How’d you learn to cook so well?”

“Not having a parent around makes you figure it out. I got tired of only eating crap food or at crafty.” He picks at the edge of a fry, breaking it in half absently. “I got really good at breakfast because my mom would always come home early in the morning from her nights out partying, so I’d make her breakfast before she passed out on the couch.”

A pang twists low in my chest.

“Guess that’s why I still like it. Feels like stability,” he says, brushing it off.

My chest pulls a little at that. I swallow down whatever thought is forming in my throat and instead pick up another fry, nudging it toward him.

“Well, you’ve officially made the best eggs I’ve ever had. So, congrats, you win.”

I pause for a beat and then add, softer this time, “But seriously… I think it’s kind of incredible that you figured all that out on your own. Not just breakfast, but taking care of yourself. Not everyone would have.”

We sit in the quiet for a moment before he reaches up and gently peels off my face mask and then his. He gathers the empty food tray on his way out, and by the time he comes back a few minutes later, I’m already curled up in bed, sleep tugging at me. I hear him moving around the room, the rustle of fabric, the soft click of the light.

Then the bed dips, warmth seeping into my side as he slides in beside me. A beat of silence, and then his arm comes around me, pulling me against his chest, solid and warm, the slow rise and fall of his breath steady against my neck. His face is still slightly damp from the mask, and even freshly showered, his scent clings to him. I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we are. Of how easy it feels.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” he rumbles, his voice low and warm against the hush of the room.

“Goodnight,” I whisper.

I sigh softly, my eyes slipping shut, the steady rise and fall of his breath lulling me under.