Page 44 of PR Stunt

One brow arches. “Why? Because it’s easy to remember, or because you have terrible security instincts?”

I march ahead, ignoring him and heading straight for my car, which we’re taking tonight. Not his reckless, windblown, dangerously cinematic bike.

Grayson slows when he sees it and then slides me a look. “Playing it safe, sweetheart?”

I grip the driver’s-side door handle. “No. Just in the mood for actual legroom. And what did I say about calling me sweetheart?”

I go to pull the door open, but a fast arm presses it closed tight near my face. The metal barely makes a sound, but the shift in the air is instant. I blink up at him, my fingers still curled around the handle. Heat lingers from where his forearm hovers near mine, close enough to feel but not touching.

His voice is calm. “Okay, we’ll take the car. But I’ll drive.”

I huff out a breath and straighten, but neither of us moves.

“Bold of you to assume I’d let that happen,” I say, tilting my chin.

“What? I can’t drive my girlfriend to dinner?”

I narrow my eyes, tightening my grip on the handle. The second I reach for the door again, he moves, deftly slipping the keys from between my fingers.

“Grayson.”

He twirls the keys once in his palm. “Charlie.” My name sounds different coming from him.

I swat at his arm, but he steps back, expertly dodging me.

“Relax,” he says, slipping into the driver’s seat like this was never up for debate. “You’ll survive.”

Grayson reaches across to push the passenger door open, looking at me expectantly.

Fine. He can drive. Just this once.

I circle around to the other side, my kitten heels clicking sharply against the driveway while he watches, clearly amused.

I slide onto the seat, crossing my legs as I turn toward him. “If you so much as put a scratch on Dolly.”

His eyebrows lift. “Dolly?”

“My car, obviously.”

Grayson huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he’s committing that to memory.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

His hand flexes on the steering wheel, long fingers tightening and then easing off again.

A few minutes later, we pull up to the restaurant, where warm light spills onto the sidewalk. Even from the car, the low buzz of conversation and soft laughter drift out from the open patio. The valet steps forward as Grayson slows to a stop. He barely has the car in park before he glances over, eyes intense.

“Ready, girlfriend?” he asks, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Thrilled,” I say with the fakest smile I can manage.

The valet opens his door, and Grayson smoothly steps out, handing over the keys. “Thanks, buddy.”

The other valet moves toward my door, but Grayson beats him to it. He opens it himself, stepping into my space with his hand outstretched.

I slip my fingers into his. His palm is warm and steady as I step out. He lingers a second before letting go.

I exhale and smooth my blouse as we head toward the entrance, his hand resting lightly at my back.