Page 37 of PR Stunt

My chest rises and falls, breath just slightly off rhythm.

Grayson looks down at where my fingers are still fisted in his shirt. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze back to mine. His blue eyes are dark, his gaze heavy. I barely meet his chest.

“I see you still like it rough,” he says.

Ugh. I shove him back, barely making him budge, and then spin on my heel and stalk toward the kitchen. I can hear his footsteps behind me, steady and unbothered, his amusement practically radiating off him.

Grayson leans against the counter, clearly enjoying this. “Seemed more efficient this way.”

I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “Efficient?”

He shrugs. “The paps got their shot. The fans got their moment. Everyone’s happy.”

“I’m not happy,” I fire back.

“If this is what not happy looks like, I might make a habit of it.” A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.

A flicker of heat rises in my chest, crawling up my neck. I cross my arms, trying to stay focused.

“You do realize we have an actual schedule? A plan? A whole PR team who plots this crap out?”

“And yet,” he says smoothly, “this will be all over the internet in the next hour. More organic. More exciting. Less manufactured.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Less manufactured! You literally just rode in on your motorcycle like some…some—”

“Movie star?”

I swear to God.

Grayson grins, knowing he’s pissing me off.

I exhale slowly, trying to contain the rage bubbling beneath my skin. “You don’t get to go rogue, Cole.”

He arches a brow. “Babe, and now Cole?”

Before I can tell him to shut up, he tilts his head, eyes sharp with something unreadable. “You mad because I didn’t follow orders, or mad because you weren’t prepared for it?”

I narrow my eyes. “Both.”

He chuckles. “A win is a win.”

My patience is hanging by a thread, and he’s tugging on it like it’s his favorite pastime. Then he leans in slightly and sniffs the air in front of me. “You smell like a tumbleweed.”

A tumbleweed? Not sweat. Not sunscreen. Not even the vague scent of outside. A. Tumbleweed.

I stare at him. “Funny.”

Grayson pushes off the counter and casually strolls to the fridge. He opens it, propping one arm along the top as he leans in. His motorcycle gloves hang from his back pocket.

“Oh, yeah. Help yourself.”

He grabs a coconut water, turns around, and hops up onto the kitchen island like it’s a bar stool built for him. The can pops as he opens it and then tilts it back for a long sip. His throat works as he swallows, jaw catching the kitchen light in a way that feels annoyingly distracting.

“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

Grayson sets the coconut water down beside him. “So, how was the hike?”

I blink at him, incredulous. “It was great. Right up until the ending.”