Page 32 of PR Stunt

I unfold the card.

For the version of you no one should miss.

No signature. Just neat handwriting across the center.

I turn the tube over in my hand. “My team sent it.”

Grayson blinks and then shakes his head like he’s trying to process the absurdity. “As entertaining as…whatever this is”—he gestures vaguely at the box of ChapStick—“I have to go.”

Grayson turns toward the door, and I follow, tucking a tube into my pocket.

“For the record,” I say, still mildly offended by his tone, “this is not just any ChapStick. It’s peptide infused, dewy without being sticky, and nearly impossible to keep in stock. Hydration, hype, and emotional support all in one. It’s a lifeline.”

Grayson huffs out a laugh, shaking his head like I’m a lost cause. “If it’s that good, looking forward to getting a taste.”

He glances back at me with that maddening half-smile.

I fight the urge to take the bait. We step outside, and parked right in front of my house is his motorcycle. He walks toward it, moving with that same confidence that makes everything he does look like it belongs in a movie. Just before he swings a leg over the bike, he throws a look over his shoulder, cheeky smile firmly in place.

“The next time you want to get rough with me,” he says casually, “which, by the way, I don’t mind—just know it’s fair game, Miss Grace.”

I stare, piecing together what he just said… Oh my God. He’s referencing the beach. The pinch.

I open my mouth, fully prepared to tell him off, but he’s already putting on his helmet, sliding on his sunglasses, and kicking up the stand like second nature.

And damn. He handles it like it’s weightless. Just as I’m about to deliver something appropriately scathing, he revs the engine, throws me one last glance, and takes off down the street.

Leaving me standing in my driveway, mildly annoyed. Again.

Closing the front door behind me, I lean against it and close my eyes. My headache is gone. The fresh air did help. I suppose that counts as a successful romantic walk on the beach. At least to the public. It was also the first time Grayson and I were totally alone, and he didn’t completely sabotage it.

Now that I think about it, I really don’t know much about him. Apart from some of the roles he’s done and, well, the very obvious one: being the world’s biggest player.

I pull my phone from my back pocket as I walk into the living room and sink into my plush couch. I open Instagram and type his name into the search bar. His account pops up instantly, a blue check mark beside his name. I click it. Sure enough, there he is.

Sixty million followers. Following no one. Only eight posts.

I tap the first one. It’s black and white. He is sitting on his bike—it figures—wearing a simple black t-shirt, jeans, and boots. A profile shot of him and the bike. The caption is: my girl.

Typical.

The next one is a video. He’s training in what looks like a boxing gym, working with his stunt coordinator. Shirtless, wearing simple black workout shorts, sweat glistening across his chest and shoulders. Every movement is focused and precise. His broad back flexes as he punches the bag, core tight with every hit. His muscles shift under the harsh gym lighting, jaw clenched in concentration. The caption reads: dialed in #blackout.

That’s for the upcoming spy movie premiere—the one I’m supposed to unfortunately attend with him.

Scrunching my face, I realize I’m already dreading it. Not to mention, there will be so many eyes on us. We’ll really have to be on our A game.

I keep scrolling.

The next post is a photo of him surfing, caught mid-motion as he rides a perfect wave. His hair is wet, slicked back, and his expression is loose. The caption is: Somewhere better.

Classic. Did he search “chilling captions” on Pinterest?

I scroll to the next one, a throwback of Miranda Fox and him from back in the day, when he’s barely out of his teen years, hair longer and messier as he stands beside her at what looks like one of his first red carpets. Miranda is in a sleek black dress, her signature silver hair sharp and polished even then. The caption: Day one.

I hesitate. I wasn’t expecting that.

The next one is a group shot with friends at the Super Bowl, all wearing matching team merch, beers raised mid-toast and having the time of their lives. Caption: In good company.