Page 86 of PR Stunt

The second I take a nibble, I know I’m done for. The eggs practically dissolve in my mouth. The sourdough has that deep, tangy flavor you can actually taste. I’m mid-bite, fully absorbed in the food, when I catch him watching me. Grayson, fork in hand, is leaning against the counter, eyes locked on me.

I swallow, clearing my throat. “Okay, fine,” I repeat—aloud this time. I gesture at the plate. “This is sufficient, but to be clear, we still aren’t friends.”

His mouth curves slightly, like he already knew that. “We’ve never been friends.”

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach dip. He’s not just stating a fact. He’s implying something. But what? The only possible explanation, the only logical one, is the pr relationship. That’s what he means, right? That we’re more than friends because we have to be.

Because people expect us to be.

We finish eating in a comfortable silence, the scrape of forks against plates the only sound between us. When I set mine down, Grayson reaches for it, taking both plates and walking over to the dishwasher. He loads them, closes it, and presses a button before glancing back at me.

“So,” he says, voice easy. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I hesitate, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. “Talk about what?”

He shrugs slightly but holds my gaze. “Whatever had you ready to disappear halfway through dinner.”

I pause and then exhale. “It’s nothing major. Just…pressure.” I say it quietly, hoping that makes it easier to admit. “No matter what I do, it never feels like enough. If one person loves something, ten others don’t. And I know I shouldn’t care, but sometimes it’s hard not to.”

There’s a moment where I think he’ll respond. Maybe with something dismissive or clever.

But he just watches me, quiet and present.

I give a small smile, brushing it off. “Anyway… Thanks for the eggs.”

Instead of lingering in the weirdness of thanking Grayson Cole for making me food, I swivel in my chair, taking in the rest of the space. The windows. The impossibly deep sectional. The dark, moody tones.

But something’s still poking at me. An itch I can’t quite ignore.

I glance at him again. “So…you and Lauren?”

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean. He just nods once, slow. “Yeah. Figured you’d caught on.”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the ends. “We were…seeing each other for a bit. Before you.”

“She’s a real treat,” I say, unable to hide the judgment in my tone as I glance around his place.

“We didn’t do much talking.”

I snort lightly, shaking my head. “Okay,” I say, pushing off the counter. “House tour time. It’s only fair. You’ve seen mine.”

Grayson leans against the island, a dish towel over one shoulder and arms crossed. “You can see anything you want.”

Something in the way he says it makes my skin warm. Feeling awkward, I walk toward the record player, my fingers skimming over the stack of vinyls leaning against the stand. A few old-school classics, but also some unexpected picks.

“Wouldn’t have pinned you as a vinyl guy.”

“There you go again, admitting that you think about me,” Grayson drawls.

Rolling my eyes, I turn back to the records, flipping through them slowly and letting my fingertips trail over the sleeves. There’s something intimate about going through someone’s music.

I slide out a record, studying the cover. “May I?”

He gives me a go-ahead nod. I slide the record from its sleeve, place it on the turntable, and gently drop the needle. A soft crackle fills the room before the first notes spill out, rich and warm. Grayson’s still watching me, tilting his head slightly.

Needing to move my feet, I walk through the main floor, passing a sleek gym that connects directly to the garage. The doors are open just enough for me to glimpse inside— four cars, and his bike is against the far wall. The sight of it sends a flash of memory through my mind.

The weight of my body pressed against his. The rush of wind and the popping of the engine beneath us. I let the thought go and head back through the living area, passing a glass-walled wine room before stopping at the stairs. I glance up and then start climbing, not caring if I’m meant to.