Page 39 of PR Stunt

He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening just slightly. “It’s for safety.”

I tilt my head. “Oh, so safety matters now?”

Grayson gives me a pointed look. “You ever taken a rock to the face going eighty? No? Didn’t think so. Besides,” he adds, voice dropping just slightly, “to mark that face of yours? Not wise.” He pauses for a moment but speaks again before I can. “Seriously.” He actually sounds serious this time. “Anna would kill me.”

He swings a leg over the bike, settling in comfortably, and then looks at me expectantly.

One last excuse. “What if I get cold?”

He reaches into his saddlebag, pulls out a worn jean jacket, and holds it out.

Grayson grins, the picture of ease, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Come on, Grace,” he murmurs. “Live a little.”

I release a breath through clenched teeth, finally caving as I step up to the bike. Grayson is still seated, one boot planted on the pavement, the other resting on the peg. He holds the helmet out, and I reach for it—only for him to lift it past my hands and settle it over my head instead. The weight settles, solid and steady, the padding pressing snug against my cheeks. Grayson flips up the visor, his fingers brushing along my jaw as he adjusts the fit. When he fastens the strap beneath my chin, his fingers pause for a moment at the spot where my pulse is hammering in my neck. Then he gives the strap a quick, firm tug to check it.

His piercing blue eyes find mine through the visor. “That feel okay? Snug?”

I nod.

He nods back, satisfied. “Good.”

He holds out the jean jacket next. slide my arms into it. The worn, oversized fabric swallows me whole, wrapping me in his warm, spicy scent.

Reaching back, I pull my soft curls free from the collar, shaking them loose.

Grayson’s gaze tracks the movement. “Come on. Throw your leg over.”

I study him for half a second and then place my hands on his shoulders, using them as leverage as I swing my leg over the bike. The seat is higher than I expect, the position unfamiliar, but I settle in, shifting slightly to get comfortable.

Grayson reaches down and taps the small metal pegs on either side. “Your feet go here.”

I follow his instruction, resting my sneakers lightly against them.

Then he gestures toward the exhaust pipe. “This gets hot, okay? Keep your legs straight. You’re wearing jeans, but still, just to be safe.”

I nod, adjusting my position. I do everything he says.

And then comes the inevitable.

“You need to hold on,” he instructs.

I don’t do holding on. I do standing on my own two feet.

Grayson glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Unless you wanna test your balance?”

I swallow hard. Reluctantly, I wrap my arms around him, my hands settling low against his stomach.

He leans forward slightly, one hand braced on the handlebar as the other reaches back, tugging his leather gloves from his pocket. He slides them on one at a time.

Beneath my hands, his abs tighten as he shifts, the movement subtle but unmistakable.

I exhale and link my hands at my wrists, keeping the hold as light as possible.

He pulls his helmet on and rolls the throttle. The engine roars to life beneath us.

And before I can think about it too hard, we’re moving.

Grayson guides the bike out of my driveway, down my street, and then—we’re on the open road. The Malibu coast unfolds in front of us, sunlit and glittering, and the ocean is a perfect shade of deep blue.