Page 108 of PR Stunt

To my surprise, he keeps sharing.

“My mom couldn’t afford the lifestyle,” he says, voice even. “And she didn’t want to move back home. So…I was her ticket to money.”

I shift, studying his profile. The relaxed way he leans back, the easy tilt of his beer bottle in his hand. But the casual delivery doesn’t mask the truth of it. I should say something. But what? I’m sorry feels empty. That’s awful feels obvious. And Grayson doesn’t seem like the kind of person who wants sympathy.

“Well…do you enjoy it now?” I ask carefully.

He pauses, gaze fixed on the water, lost in thought. “It took me a long time to separate the two. Why I was put in it, and why I stayed.” He exhales, his fingers tapping lightly against the glass.

I stay quiet, letting him go at his own pace.

A faint warmth flickers across his face, and he shakes his head. “But the work itself. The art of it. The kind of storytelling that sticks with you. The opportunities it’s given me. I’ve stayed in for the right reasons.”

His thumb brushes absently over the label of his beer bottle. “I mean, I’ve traveled the world because of this job. Worked with some of the best in the business. Built a life I never would have had otherwise.”

He shrugs. “But it’s also all I’ve ever known.”

That last part hangs in the air between us, weighty but honest.

He pauses and then smiles, tilting his head slightly. “Though, I guess I’ve gotten more out of it than just a career. That’s how I learned Spanish, too. Had a nanny growing up. Lucía. She’s from Mexico and took care of me when I was a kid, basically raised me.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s something in the way he says it that tells me she was more than just a caretaker to him. “She only spoke Spanish at home. Figured if I wanted snacks, I had to learn.”

A soft laugh escapes me, but it fades when he adds, “She left when I was thirteen. My mom said I didn’t need a nanny anymore, and I was basically on set most of the time anyway.”

I swallow, my fingers tightening around my glass.

Grayson leans back again. “Miranda kind of stepped in after that.”

“Miranda?”

He nods. “She’s been with me since I was a teenager. Took me under her wing, made sure I didn’t get screwed over in this business. Gives me shit when I need it, watches out for me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, a wry kind of affection in his eyes. “She’s a hard-ass, but she’s probably the closest thing I have to a second mom.”

That explains their closeness. The way Miranda is more than just his agent, how she speaks about him with a level of protectiveness I hadn’t questioned before. It makes sense now.

“It’s a weird business,” I say eventually. “All-consuming. Even when you love it, it’s still…a lot.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” he says, his eyes meeting mine, “you make it look easy.”

I huff out a small laugh. “That’s the job, right?”

He clinks his bottle against my glass again. This time, we hold eye contact automatically.

“Seven years of bad sex,” I murmur, reminding him.

His mouth quirks. “Can’t risk it.”

Something tells me that Grayson is the exception to that rule. We both take a sip, still watching each other.

I shift closer, bumping my knee against his. “I mean, considering you just booked a movie in Fiji, I’d say you’re doing okay.”

He gives a small, almost grateful smile. “Yeah, not bad.”

The moment settles between us, quiet but not heavy anymore. Just two people, caught somewhere between work and something real.

Chapter 32

Dinner is simple but fresh. Grilled fish caught earlier that day, charred Mexican street corn and, of course, chips and guac. Conversation flows as easily as the drink in my glass. We trade stories about past gigs. Grayson tells me about how he had to film a fight scene with food poisoning and nearly threw up on his co-star. I confessed all the things I’ve taken home from set over the years. Somewhere between bites of corn and another sip of my drink, we start talking about dream projects. He wants to do something edgy, something that pushes him beyond romance movies, and I say I’d love to take on a period drama. Corsets, candlelit ballrooms, preferably shot in England, the whole thing. And then, somehow, we end up debating the most important topic of the night.

“Shrek three is undeniably better,” I claim, pointing my fork at him for emphasis.