Page 93 of PR Stunt

“I had a dream about him,” I say, like I’m admitting to a crime.

“No. Stop. You did not.”

I lift my head, already smiling wider. “Oh, I did. He was all broody…and hot…and shit. Even my dreams have no chill.”

Juno bursts out laughing. “You’re gone.”

I laugh too, shaking my head. “Truly. No coming back.”

Juno lets the moment hang and then gently bumps her knee against mine. “Okay, for real. I love you, but you put way too much pressure on yourself. You always have.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” She raises an eyebrow, taking another sip of wine. “I think maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to overanalyze this. Let people talk, let them assume. Who cares?” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s not. But my witchy woo senses say it’s not just an act. Either way, does it even matter right now?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this doesn’t have to be some grand, life-altering thing. You’re allowed to enjoy this for what it is, whatever it is. Have fun. You can temporarily have this, Grayson or not, without thinking three steps ahead.”

I let out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Well, now’s your chance to try.” She lifts her glass. “Go to Mexico. Have fun. And just be present, Char.”

I shake my head, but I tap my glass gently against hers anyway. She wraps an arm around me, pulling me close as the last bit of sunlight dips below the horizon. And for a while, we just sit there.

Chapter 27

The private terminal at Burbank is calm this morning. I settle into one of the leather chairs, tucking my feet under me as I scan my emails. Feeling fidgety, I cross my legs and then uncross them. After a night with Juno, filling her in on everything weighing on my mind, I thought I had it figured out. I needed the reset, the clarity. And yet, now that I’m here, now that I’m doing exactly what she said—just being—I feel laid open. Like I’m on set with no lines to follow. Still, I square my shoulders, scrolling through my inbox.

“Good morning, Miss Grace.”

Grayson strolls in, headphones around his neck and that beat-up leather jacket hanging off his shoulders paired with army green cargos. I take in the silver carry-on, the duffel slung over one shoulder, and the long, sleek surfboard bag he’s maneuvering through the doorway.

“Good morning, Grayson.”

His mouth twitches as he bites back a real smile. “So formal this morning. Is this vacation-mode Charlie?”

The teasing is back. We’re both ignoring the other night. Good. That’s settled.

“Mmm, not quite yet,” I murmur. “But the second we’re off duty, I plan to be horizontal. Either poolside with a book or in a hammock napping off an embarrassing amount of chips and guac.”

A discreet staff member appears at the edge of the lounge, hands clasped in front of her. “Miss Grace, Mr. Cole, your jet is ready for boarding.”

I stand, smoothing the hem of my tank top. I adjust the crewneck slung over my shoulders, tighten the strap, and grab my bag. Grayson collects his luggage, and we step through a private exit. Just beyond the glass doors, a black luxury car idles. The driver nods as an attendant opens the door, taking our luggage. I slide in first, sinking into the cool leather seat. Grayson follows, his legs crowding the space. As we pull away, the view shifts, revealing runways crisscrossing in the distance, ground crew moving with practiced rhythm. The jet comes into view, stairs already lowered. A flight attendant waits at the base, hands clasped. The car stops beside the plane. The driver steps out and opens the door. We climb out and make our way to the stairs.

“Good morning! Welcome aboard,” the she says with a polite smile.

“Hi! Thank you so much.” I reply, stepping inside.

The cabin is spacious, the soft cream leather seats and polished wood accents giving it an airy feel. A fruit platter sits on the console, next to neatly arranged snacks and bottled water. I slide into one of the seats, adjusting my tote beside me as Grayson settles across from me, setting his duffel down. For a fleeting second, I have the passing thought that I should be in character. Shoulders relaxed, an easy smile, the version of me the world expects: an excited girlfriend going on holiday.

The flight attendant approaches. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks.

“Can I please have coffee? Splash of cream, honey, and cinnamon if you have it.”

“Coffee, black. Please,” Grayson adds.

Grayson shifts in his seat, stretching one arm along the back of the chair, fingers tapping idly against the leather. I glance at the window, watching the tarmac blur in the morning haze.