Page 57 of PR Stunt

My brow furrows. What does that even mean? I swear they make this up. I try to follow the cue, but all I can think about is how my lungs are currently on strike and my legs are turning into jelly. My ribs feel exactly the same as they always do. Decidedly not like an open book.

More like a locked vault holding in my rapidly fading patience.

The instructor moves through the room, voice calm and impossibly serene. “Find length through your spine. Imagine energy flowing through you like light.”

The only light I can imagine is the one at the end of the tunnel, leading me out of this publicity nightmare. Maybe I’ll join Juno in Italy after this is all over. I could use an Aperol Spritz and an Italian man to whisk me away on a scooter.

The instructor claps her hands. “Alright, ladies! Let’s move into side splits. Find your inner grace.”

I exhale sharply, adjusting my stance. Inner grace? Not likely. Right now, I’m two side splits away from pulling out of this fiasco and saying to hell with the whole plan. The rest of the class continues, kicking my butt but in a good way. We switch to cool-down mode, adjusting to two red springs, slipping our feet into the straps, and moving through slow, controlled leg circles in both directions. The tension eases slightly, and my muscles are grateful, but my mind stays restless.

“Now,” the instructor says in a calm, almost hypnotic voice, “picture in your mind what you want—your dreams, your vision for yourself.”

I inhale deeply, letting my eyes flutter closed.

And I picture…Grayson.

Standing there, arms crossed, intense gaze locked onto me, one side of his mouth curled up, head tilted in that arrogant, too-knowing way. Teasing. Always teasing.

“And then, picture yourself achieving it all.”

In my mind, my vision shifts.

A pigeon—no, an entire squadron of pigeons descends from the sky. One swoops in with precision, releasing a perfectly aimed payload that smacks Grayson dead center in the face. I watch as he freezes, blinking through the mess, his smugness wiped clean. Then, as if summoned by fate, a whole swarm of them appears. A synchronized aerial attack. A full-scale pigeon poo ambush. Grayson flails, swiping at his face, spinning in circles as bird after bird lets loose, pelting him from all angles. His arms flail, and his curses are muffled under the relentless assault. I feel something suspiciously close to peace. A breathy exhale slips from my lips, dangerously close to a laugh.

Juno turns her head, eyebrows raised. “Uh…you good?” she whispers.

I force my eyes open, clearing my throat. “Yep. Super Zen.”

She gives me a look, but I just flex my feet in the straps, settling back into the stretch.

Manifestation, right?

I get up, muscles aching but loose, and grab the disinfectant spray to wipe down my reformer.

“I have a feeling today is a sauna day,” Juno announces.

She doesn’t even have to ask. “You read my mind.”

A few minutes later, we’re wrapped in white towels, stepping into the warm, scented sauna. The moment we sit on the wooden bench, heat pressing into our skin, Juno turns to me with a knowing look.

“Do I even want to know what you were plotting at the end there?” she asks, arching a brow. “Because you looked full-fledged diabolical scheming, Char.”

I let out a soft laugh and then sigh dramatically. “Junebug, I’m in deep…mud.”

Juno frowns. “Wait, what?”

I sigh, adjusting my towel. “I have to do this mud race. With Grayson.”

Juno blinks, trying to process. Slowly, she leans forward. “I’m sorry, what?”

I tell her the SparkNotes version.

Her mouth opens like she’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. She just stares at me, frozen.

A second of silence.

Then she bursts. Full-body laughter. A wheezing attack. She tilts her head back against the wood, shoulders shaking, tears brimming in her eyes.