Page 97 of PR Stunt

Grayson turns his head slightly, and even in the dim light, I see it: the slow-spreading smile, the kind that makes my stomach do something stupid. His shoulders are more relaxed than I’ve ever seen them. We pass pastel-colored buildings, open-air restaurants, and couples sharing drinks under woven lanterns. Music spills from somewhere, soft guitar strums mixing with the blend of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. It’s intimate and lively all at once.

Grayson slows slightly as we turn a corner, coming to a stop at a light. His hand reaches down to find mine. My breath catches. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t make a show of it, just links our fingers together.

It’s for the act, I tell myself. But his thumb brushes over my skin, tracing the side of my hand absently. Then he lifts my hand to his mouth and presses the softest brush of his lips to my knuckles. It’s brief, barely there, but my breath catches anyway. Shivers ripple down my spine, breaking out across my skin like a reflex I can’t control. I scan the groups of people around us, crossing the street, but nobody’s paying attention. The light turns green, and he lets go of my hand, placing it back on the throttle.

Ahead, the street curves toward the beach, the glow of the moon stretching long over the sand. The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and warm spices, and for a second I forget that this is anything other than what it feels like.

Being genuinely present.

Grayson pulls the scooter into a small lot packed with others, all looking just as battered as ours. I swing my leg over first, careful not to flash the entire street while I adjust my dress, smoothing the fabric back over my legs. He hops off right after me. The second his feet hit the pavement, he tugs off his helmet, raking a hand through his hair before hooking it onto the handlebars. I reach for my own, but his fingers are already there, undoing the strap. I go still, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

The soft brush of his knuckles against my jaw, the light pressure of his fingers at the nape of my neck. He unclips my helmet and hangs it beside his before his eyes sweep over my face. “Is that a…smile I see?”

I bite back the full grin threatening to break free, shaking my head. “Just thinking about the guac I’m about to inhale.”

His eyes are bright, teasing. “Sure, you are.”

His fingers slip around mine, lacing them together as he leads me inside. Golden lanterns hang from the trees like fireflies caught mid-glow, casting soft light over tables and half-empty drinks. Grayson greets the host with a few words in Spanish, a quick nod, and within seconds, we’re led toward a two-person table tucked beneath the canopy of twinkling lights. I settle into my seat, smoothing my hands over my thighs and scanning the menu, even though I already know what I’m ordering.

Across from me, Grayson leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, watching me. I focus on the menu, fingers absently tracing the edges of the paper, the candlelight shimmering between us. Nearby, a group of vacationers laugh over their drinks.

A server approaches with an easy smile. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Jalapeño margarita for her, and I’ll take a Modelo,” Grayson orders.

Not him ordering my favorite drink…

The server nods, scribbling it down.

He disappears, and I glance at Grayson, arching a brow. “That’s exactly what I was going to get.”

He shrugs. “I vaguely remember you saying something about bikinis and spicy margs.”

I pause, racking my brain. That was weeks ago. At the contract meeting. My chest tightens. I tilt my head, giving him a mock-impressed look. “Wow. So, you do listen sometimes.”

The corner of Grayson’s mouth lifts as his gaze travels over me. “Only when it’s important.”

The server sets our drinks down with a polite nod. “Enjoy.”

Grayson dips his chin. “Gracias, amigo.”

I reach for my margarita and lift it to my lips. But just as I’m about to take a sip…

“I have a proposition for you.”

I pause, glass hovering mid-air, gaze connecting with his over the rim. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a spark of something in his eyes. Nervousness? Interest? Whatever it is, I don’t trust it.

Slowly, I set my drink back down, tilting my head. “That sounds risky.”

His lips twitch. “Not yet.” He leans back, fingers drumming lazily against his beer bottle. “Here’s the thing, sweetheart. We both work too much.”

I arch a brow. “That’s your grand observation?”

He shifts, one arm slung over the back of his chair. “I’m saying, we rarely get time off, and now we’re here. Together. In a place people would kill to vacation in. So, why not actually enjoy it?”

“You mean take a real vacation…together?”

A wicked gleam flickers in his eyes as his lips curl. “Think about it. No early call times. No back-to-back press. No Anna or Miranda hovering over us with a checklist. Just sun, drinks, and—” he gestures lazily between us “—playing nice. We have to do it anyway. Might as well make it a little less miserable.”