Page 49 of PR Stunt

“What? Why? No.”

Grayson flicks his turn signal on, unbothered. “Because it’ll look real.”

“Or it’ll look like I passed out from a terrible meal,” I counter.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. “Charlie.” His voice is softer now, less of a command. “Just trust me.”

I let out a quiet sigh, irritated, but he’s right.

Slowly, reluctantly, I shift closer and rest my head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him beneath his jacket, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

His shoulder is solid, his posture easy. He doesn’t tense, like this is routine for us.

I stare out the windshield, my pulse thrumming somewhere annoyingly close to my throat. I pretend I’m on set and there’s an entire crew around us. Grayson shifts his hand on the wheel, his forearm brushing against mine.

And then, low, barely above the sound of the engine, he murmurs, “See? Not so hard.”

I keep my head where it is, willing my body to relax, to make this look natural. The car rolls to a stop at the light. The headlights behind us stay steady. I can’t see the paparazzi, but I know they’re there, cameras aimed, ready to twist this moment into whatever sells best. Grayson doesn’t move or acknowledge them. His breathing stays slow, posing for the cameras. The light turns green. He presses down on the pedal, and we slip onto the open road. The tension in my spine starts to ease, just a little. We drive in silence for a while, the city blurring past in golden streaks.

Grayson’s hand shifts slightly on the wheel, his fingers tapping against the leather. Every so often, he checks the rearview mirror.

Then, nonchalantly, like it’s just another part of the drive, he asks, “So, should I worry?”

His voice is quiet, more felt than heard, the vibration deep against my temple where I rest against his shoulder. His scent lingers, but beneath it, I catch a faint trace of whiskey on his breath.

“What?” I ask, glancing up at him and taking note of his full lashes.

“I need to know who I’m competing with,” he says, lips curving slightly. “You mentioned you had a hot date with your book boyfriend.”

Oh. It clicks, and I turn my head back to the road.

Grayson chuckles, considering. The sound rumbles through his chest. “That bad, huh?”

I lift a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “He’s a high lord, actually.”

“A lord.”

“Yes.” I turn my gaze back to him, like this isn’t a completely ridiculous conversation. “Of a very powerful court. He’s ruthless. Dark. Brooding. Wears a lot of black.”

Grayson makes a thoughtful noise, his throat shifting against my head. “Sounds familiar.”

I huff out a laugh. “Not even close.”

“Right,” he muses, turning onto a quieter street. “I forgot the part where he rules a kingdom.”

“And has magic,” I add. “Don’t forget the magic.”

He switches on his turn signal. “So, what you’re saying is, I should start carrying a sword.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

Grayson shakes his head slightly, the movement subtle against me. “Noted.”

I press my lips together, forcing my own smile away. Grayson slows the car, turns once more, and then stops, shifting into park.

“We’re here,” he says, his voice easy.

It takes me a second to register the words. And then—oh.