Page 31 of PR Stunt

I head toward the back door. Grayson follows, and I lock up behind us. We walk in silence, our footsteps crunching softly against the stone path as we make our way to the gate that leads to the beach. Grayson reaches it first, easily unlatching it. He pushes it open and steps aside, looking at me with that maddening, natural ease of his.

“Lead the way,” he says smoothly.

I inhale. This is just like on set. Minus…well, everything. I can do this. Slipping into the role of the happy, blissfully in love girlfriend, I step forward onto the sand. He reaches for my hand. I jolt, startled by the warmth of his skin against mine. His fingers, slightly rough with calluses, engulf my own with a familiarity that feels almost instinctive, as if this is something we do all the time. We fall into step together, his long stride naturally setting the pace. His one step is my two, forcing me to pick up speed just to keep up. The act settles into motion.

I glance up at him to my right, offer a small smile, and step a fraction closer, letting my left hand rest lightly on his forearm. He tenses, just slightly. A brief flicker of something unreadable passes over his face before he relaxes again, his muscles loosening beneath my touch. The beach stretches wide in front of us, golden sand cool beneath our steps. The ocean glistens under the late-morning sun, waves rolling in a steady rhythm and crashing softly onto the shore. The salty breeze lifts my hair, sending a shiver down my spine. Around us, life moves as if this isn’t some carefully constructed performance.

Dogs sprint after balls, their owners laughing as they kick up sand. A group of joggers pass by, focused and steady. Other couples walk along the shore, some with hands intertwined, others stopping for photos. To anyone watching, we look like any other couple. I exhale, easing into the role. Grayson glances out toward the water, watching as a surfer cuts smoothly across a wave before it crashes into white foam.

“You surf?” he asks.

I shake my head. “A handful of times.”

His lips curve slightly, like he’s already guessed the answer. “Let me guess… On vacation somewhere? Maybe a fancy resort instructor convinced you to try?”

“No,” I lie. Because yes. That is exactly how it happened. “I just don’t have the time for it.”

Grayson gives me a look like he doesn’t quite believe me, his gaze drifting back toward the ocean, eyes tracking a surfer farther out. A woman passes us near the tide line, two long-haired dachshunds trotting ahead of her on matching leashes. I give her a quick smile as she passes, and she smiles back before the dogs tug her forward, little paws kicking up wet sand.

Suddenly, I vaguely remember that he surfs. It had come up during the contract meeting, when he mentioned Sayulita, Mexico offhandedly, something about it being one of his favorite surf spots.

“You surf, right?” I ask, testing the memory.

His brows lift slightly, like he’s surprised I remember. “Yeah.”

He lets go of my hand and throws an arm around my shoulders.

My gut clenches. We don’t need to be this close to achieve the goal. Dammit. From here, I can smell him again. Smoky cedar wood with a hint of spice, like a cozy campfire on a warm summer night. I’m disturbed that I even just thought that. Looking ahead, I spot the paparazzi in the distance. I glance up at Grayson, giving a subtle jerk of my head in their direction.

“Two o’clock. Cameras.” I say it with a smile, like I’ve just told him an inside joke.

His lips curl into a lazy, knowing grin. The sunlight makes his blue eyes even more vibrant, the sharp contrast against his sun-kissed skin almost unfair.

Then, with zero hesitation, he tightens his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in closer as he leans down. His lips hover just above my right ear, not quite touching, but too damn close. I try really hard to not freeze up.

Then, in a voice so low it barely registers, he murmurs, “After I left you on read last night, what annoyed you more? The fact that I did? Or the fact that you actually lost sleep over me?” An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. Keeping my smile in place for the cameras, I wrap my arm around his waist, drawing him in closer, fake girlfriend mode fully engaged. But I don’t stop there. I slide my hand under his shirt, gripping his waist—annoyingly toned, I might add—before pinching him hard.

Grayson inhales sharply, muscles tensing beneath my hold.

I rest my head against his bicep, smiling sweetly. “If you so much as hint that I’ve thought about you again,” I say lightly, “I’ll tell everyone that only do you have a bed-wetting problem, but you also have bad breath.”

Chapter 12

The rest of our morning stroll goes exactly to plan. By the time we get back to my house, photos and videos are already surfacing across social media. Anna and Miranda both send texts, thrilled with the results. Leaning against my kitchen island, I finish the last of my water from earlier, scrolling through the coverage.

A few feet away, Grayson nods toward the package sitting on the counter. “What’s in the box?”

I arch a brow. “Not that I need to show you.”

But curiosity gets the best of me. I walk over to the package, grab scissors from the drawer, and slice through the tape. There’s no return address. No sender information. Just Charlie Grace scrawled across the top in Sharpie.

I pull back the flaps, peel away the tissue paper, and my brows lift.

It’s a box full of my favorite ChapStick. Nestled on top is a small cream card, folded once.

Grayson walks over and stands beside me, confusion written all over his face. “A lifetime supply of ChapStick?” he says.

I laugh, grabbing a tube. “It’s only the best ChapStick in the world. I was running low, and I mentioned it on set when I did a campaign.”