Page 29 of PR Stunt

“You have a warped sense of reality,” I mutter.

“See? Small-town golden girl with an attitude. Makes sense.”

“What about you? Where’s Grayson Cole from?” The question comes out in his exact tone, mimicked perfectly.

His grin twitches, quickly hidden behind another sip of coffee. “Los Angeles.”

That actually makes me pause. “You were born here?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Born and raised. A true Hollywood kid.”

“That…makes a lot of sense,” I say, taking another bite of toast.

“Oh?” He tilts his head, eyes sharp. “And what exactly does that mean?”

I swallow and wipe my fingers on another napkin. “Just that you’ve got that whole naturally chaotic energy. Like you grew up surrounded by industry people and learned to talk your way in or out of anything.”

Grayson chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s quite the assumption.”

“Am I wrong?” I ask.

His eyes harden slightly, but he doesn’t confirm nor deny it. Instead, he changes the subject. “So, when do I get the tour?”

I pause, frowning. “Of what?”

“Your house.” He gestures around. “I mean, if we’re supposed to be a couple, I should probably know what it looks like, right?”

I eye him suspiciously. “You just want to snoop.”

His grin is immediate, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Just curious.”

I roll my eyes, pushing my chair back. “Fine. But if you touch anything in my closet or office, I’ll spread a rumor after this contract is over that you wet the bed.”

Grayson laughs mid-sip and promptly spits out his coffee.

I watch, deeply satisfied, as he launches into a full-on coughing attack, struggling to recover between breathless chuckles.

Finally, my turn to be smug.

I grab my garbage and the package from the table, turning toward the house. “Now, are you coming?” I toss over my shoulder.

Still mid-cough, Grayson shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that I can’t hear. Whatever it is, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of asking. I grin to myself as I step inside. Grayson follows me, and I gesture toward the kitchen on the left.

He walks straight over to my range. It’s some fancy French brand. Black and gold with polished brass accents, a true statement piece. He runs a hand along the edge. “You cook?”

I snort. “The extent of my cooking is boxed taquitos in the oven.”

He shakes his head like he expected that answer.

“But,” I add, “it’s actually on my goal sheet this year to learn.”

Grayson lets out a quiet laugh. “Of course you have a goal-setting sheet.”

I sigh and keep walking, leading him toward the living room. It’s pretty self-explanatory. He doesn’t say much, just looks around, taking it all in. But when we reach my office, I stop.

“This is my office-slash-library,” I say, stepping inside. “My favorite room in the house.”

Grayson’s gaze moves past me, landing on the arched bookshelves that take up the far wall. He walks over, eyes scanning the neatly arranged spines, fingertips grazing over the hardcovers.