Page 72 of PR Stunt

She heads out, her heels clicking lightly against the floor, and the second the door shuts behind her, my phone rings.

“Yes?”

“Good evening, sweetheart. A pleasure as always,” Grayson jokes.

“What do you want?”

“I would love my girlfriend’s help with something.”

I squint. “Fake girlfriend. And no.”

He sighs. “Don’t hang up.”

“That depends. Are you calling because you miss the sound of your own voice?”

“Close, but no.”

Something about his tone makes me pause. It’s missing the usual cocky lilt, the lazy amusement he laces into every sentence.

“I need help running a scene. My character is a bit of a softy.”

I pause, shifting slightly in my chair. “You have a co-star. An agent. Ask Miranda.”

“I don’t want Miranda,” he says too quickly. “I need someone who doesn’t feed me bullshit. Someone who’ll call me out if I start slipping into ‘Grayson’ mode.”

“So…you want someone emotionally unavailable and chronically unimpressed?”

“Exactly.”

My brow lifts. “And this is for…?”

“A film. Romance. Think The Notebook, but a western. And horses, not swans.”

I snort, despite myself. “You, in a grounded emotional romance?”

“Your faith in me is overwhelming.”

“It’s just—this would require depth. Vulnerability. A soul.” I snicker.

“I know. Which is why I’m outsourcing to someone emotionally competent. Help me out.”

Silence.

And then it slips into focus that this is the project Anna mentioned when she pitched the pr relationship. The one that’s supposed to shift how the industry sees him. Not just charming. Not just hot. But reliable. Loyal. Boyfriend material. Naturally, he’s treating it like a career hinge point. It’s his credibility on the line.

I shouldn’t say yes. I’ve finally reached the part in my book where there’s only one bed at the inn. And helping him means being around him—never good for my peace of mind. “You’re really this desperate?”

“I’ll owe you one.”

“Alright, fine.” Maybe I’m just saying yes because I shouldn’t have overheard that call after the race.

“Good. I’m in your backyard.” Then he hangs up.

I shoot up from my office chair, passing through the kitchen and living room. At the back door, I spot him through the glass—black jeans, black t-shirt, script in hand.

I open it. “Bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

He lifts the script, the porch light casting faint shadows across his face and highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones. “Some would call it initiative.”