Page 84 of PR Stunt

Understanding clicks. The way she looked at him. The way he cleared his throat before saying hello. The way her smile twisted when he didn’t play along. They have history. And I hate that it stings.

And there it is. The real hit. Not just an attack on the fake relationship. An attack on me.

The air turns sharp, my throat burning as my chest tightens under the weight of it. I turn around and push open the door, my voice coming out bored. “Enjoy keeping tabs on my success.”

The moment I step back into the gala, the air feels heavy. The champagne, the endless pressure, the way my entire existence is reduced to who I’m linked to rather than the work I put in. It all presses in, stifling. The dance portion is starting. Normally I’d spend the night dancing with Juno, but tonight I feel too defeated.

I move through the crowd, weaving past glittering gowns, my fingers still clutching my clutch a little too tightly. I need to breathe, reset, reel it all in.

Grayson is already standing as I reach the table. His gaze locks onto me, sharp, assessing. His hand finds my back. He leans in, voice low, only for me. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow. “Nothing. I just…”

Then his gaze shifts past me, hardening by the second. And I don’t need to turn around to know who he is looking at. He goes freakishly still. His demeanor shifts. Something sharp moves through his gaze. The charm? Gone. In its place, steel and cold intent. I reach for his wrist, gripping it lightly before he can move, before he can do whatever’s brewing behind those stormy eyes. He doesn’t step forward, but I can still feel it. That anger pulsing off him. That wire-tight tension in his body. My eyes start to sting.

As if he read my mind and knows exactly what I need, he says in a low voice, “Let’s go?”

“What about Anna and Miranda? The plan? I don’t know if we should leave early.” I bite my lip, scanning the crowd. Lauren is only a few strides away.

“Fuck ’em,” he mutters. Then, without another word, he grabs my hand, his grip firm, and starts moving.

I fall into step behind him, my dress whispering against the polished floor. I can’t see his face, but whatever expression he throws Lauren as we pass makes her go ashen. I school my face into something neutral, offering small smiles as we slip through the crowd. But my ears are ringing, and my body is itching to break into a sprint. The grand exhibition hall is nearly empty now, the sweeping staircase before us gleaming under the chandeliers. Grayson pulls out his phone, murmuring something short and commanding into the receiver. The stairs stretch ahead, and I feel the weight of every second ticking by.

Grayson looks over at me. “We’re almost there,” he promises.

Then, together, we move fast but controlled. Not running, but walking with purpose, his grip steady in mine as we descend the stairs. Time seems to slow, the moment stretching long and taut, heavy with the unspoken. Halfway down, he glances over, and our eyes lock. His fingers tighten around mine—just once. A single squeeze. Quiet encouragement. I hold onto it like a lifeline.

The shuttle pulls up, and the driver is already opening the door for us. Grayson still has one of my hands, and he uses his other to scoop up the fabric of my dress as we duck inside. The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us away. I sink into the oversized seat, not caring about wrinkles or posture, just relief. My head falls back against the headrest, my eyes slipping shut as I exhale. I can’t think about what just happened and unravel in front of him.

Grayson shifts beside me, his voice low. “You didn’t eat much at dinner.”

As if in agreement, my stomach growls loud enough to make my cheeks heat.

“I’m guessing you don’t have real food in your fridge,” he says.

I crack an eye open, lips twitching. “Define real food.”

“Anything that isn’t frozen taquitos.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Then no. Just frozen taquitos.”

Grayson chuckles, the sound warm in the dim cabin. He leans forward and gives the driver an address. The ride is quiet. Not awkward. Just…weighted. Like neither of us wants to be the one to break the silence. I should say something. Thank him, maybe. But my brain is too scrambled, exhaustion pressing against my temples like a vise.

When we finally pull up to a house, I blink at the sight before me. Floor-to-ceiling glass, warm golden lights spilling onto a sleek patio, an infinity pool mirroring the dark sky. I shift forward, ready to step out, and that’s when I realize—our hands…

We never let go. My fingers are still wrapped around his, his grip just as firm, like it happened unconsciously. The realization crackles through me like static, and I drop his hand quickly, tucking mine into my lap, as if that will erase the moment.

Thankfully, Grayson doesn’t say anything, but I feel his gaze linger.

The driver steps out, pulling open the door. “Here we are.”

We mumble our thank-yous and step onto the stone pathway leading to the house. The night air is cool, thick with the scent of palm trees and l.a. canyon, and for the first time since we left the gala, I feel like I can breathe. Grayson walks beside me, his hands in his pockets now, but I can still feel the memory of his hand wrapped around mine. Following him inside, I stop just past the threshold, my gaze sweeping over his home.

It’s sleek dark wood, black marble, soft recessed lighting. Every piece of furniture looks expensive but not showy, a place designed for comfort as much as style. It’s definitely giving bachelor pad, but it doesn’t feel cold. There’s warmth here, a lived-in quality that surprises me. A throw blanket draped over the couch. A record player in the corner with a stack of vinyls leaning against it. Grayson shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it onto the back of the couch before undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. A glimpse of collarbone, of smooth, tanned skin. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed. I realize abruptly that I’ve never actually asked where he lived. Never even thought to.

He glances over at me, catching me in the middle of my blatant observing. One corner of his mouth quirks. “What would you like to eat?” he asks.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” I respond.