Page 40 of PR Stunt

My arms are stiff around Grayson’s torso, my grip hovering somewhere between bracing for death and mildly strangling him. He doesn’t say anything, including, to my shock, no teasing remarks. The bike moves beneath us, dipping into curves, gliding along the road. And slowly, so slowly I barely notice it at first, I start to relax. The wind rushes past, tangling through the strands of hair that peek out from under my helmet. The nervous edge starts to dull, shifting into something unexpected.

I’m enjoying this.

Actually enjoying this.

A grin spreads across my face, and somehow, I stop overthinking. No more analyzing or obsessing over what this means or what comes next. There’s only the cool ocean air against my skin and the low rumble of the bike beneath us. I don’t care how it looks.

Not about the cameras. Not the contract. Not the schedule. Head back, legs tightening around Grayson’s thighs, I drop one hand to the side and let out a wild, breathless, “Whoop!”

Grayson responds instantly. The engine growls beneath us as he speeds up, the bike surging forward like it’s part of him. A part of us. A thrill shoots through me, unexpected and electric. I grip him tighter, but not out of fear. This time, I want to feel it. The speed. The rush.

The ride stretches on, thirty-five minutes of coastal roads and wind whipping past. No thinking. No spiraling. Just living.

Too soon, we turn onto my street. I quickly let go. Not just of him, but of the entire moment.

I feel silly. How did I not piece it together sooner? This is exactly how he gets them. The thrill. The wind. The recklessness of it all. I exhale sharply, unease and understanding curling in my stomach.

Of course he has a second helmet. A worn-in jacket, perfectly broken in for the next girl. It’s routine. A formula. For a moment, I felt what they felt. Now I get it. How he swoons numerous women and then disappoints them. A perfect façade.

By the time we pull into my driveway, my head is clear. The second the bike stills, I swing my leg over and dismount, unfastening the helmet in one swift motion. I tug it off, shaking loose, windswept golden waves over my shoulders. Then, I peel off his jacket. Grayson watches me, still sitting on the bike, hands resting lazily on the handlebars. I hand both the helmet and jacket back to him, my movements brisk.

“Thanks for the ride. Hopefully, the photos turn out,” I say, already turning toward my front door.

Chapter 15

My living room has been transformed.

Garment racks line the windows, where afternoon light usually spills across the hardwood floors. Instead of art books and candles, the coffee table now holds velvet trays of vintage jewelry, fabric swatches, and Sienna’s ever-present styling kit.

Sunlight glides over lace and beaded gowns draped along the racks, the palette soft and decadent. Pearl. Champagne. Pale gold. A gold-framed mirror has been leaned carefully against the wall.

At the center of the room, I stand in a pale-pink silk robe while Sienna circles me, already in stylist mode.

“Alright,” she says, her tone focused. “The New Gilded Age. That’s this year’s theme for the gala. Opulence. Drama. Archival craftsmanship. They want vintage couture reimagined for the modern era.”

She gestures to the rack beside us, filled with designer pieces pulled straight from the archives. Corseted bodices. Intricate beadwork. Sculptural silhouettes that feel less like clothing and more like artifacts.

She unzips a garment bag, revealing a liquid gold gown.

The bodice is structured like an antique corset, the skirt flowing in sweeping layers of embroidered tulle. The fabric looks like it’s been kissed by golden hour, catching every shift of movement.

“Try this first,” Sienna says. “Delicate but commanding. Old money but still modern.”

Dropping the robe, I let her fasten me into the dress, cool against my skin. The moment the fabric settles, the room shifts. It’s the kind of gown that turns heads, that makes people stare not because it’s revealing, but because it’s undeniable.

Sienna steps back, watching my reflection in the mirror. “Now we decide,” she says, arms crossed. “Do we lean into the vintage…white gloves, diamonds, the whole thing? Or modernize it?”

I run a hand over the intricate embroidery, feeling the weight of it sink in. Not just on my body, but in my bones. The City of Angels Gala isn’t just another event. It’s where people cement their place in Hollywood history. It’s an honor to go, and this will be my third year.

I meet Sienna’s gaze in the mirror. “Let’s lean into the history.”

A slow smile spreads across her face. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

She lifts a pair of towering metallic gold stilettos in one hand and a soft champagne satin pump with a modest two-inch heel in the other.

“I just wrapped on a show wearing red bottoms for months. Let’s go for the comfier ones.”

Sienna nods, already setting the stilettos aside. “Fair point.”