Page 47 of PR Stunt

Feeling bold, I shrug and lift my wineglass. “Even if you don’t follow anyone on Instagram, no one is that unfazed.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes my stomach drop. I realize my mistake immediately. Grayson sets his gaze on me. Shit.

And then, in that smooth, lazy way of his, he says, “So you did, in fact, look into me, Miss Grace.”

My entire body goes hot.

I snap my gaze up, immediately defensive. “I did not—”

Grayson leans forward slightly, his eyes practically sparkling now, like I just made his entire night. “You just said I don’t follow anyone. Kind of a specific detail, don’t you think?”

“It’s not exactly classified information.” Shit. Shit. Shit… Maybe I can blame it on the contract? Or Anna told me? I don’t know. Anything.

“True. But most people wouldn’t notice. Unless, of course, they went looking.”

I go to sip my wine, only to find it completely empty. Grayson’s gaze drops to my glass, soaking in this moment, drawing it out, and stretching my humiliation as long as he possibly can. I jump up quickly, and my thighs bump the table. The slight clatter draws attention. A couple from the next table glances over, curious. Grayson glares at them, and they immediately look away.

I clear my throat. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Leaning back in his chair and stretching out his legs, he murmurs with a dazzling smile, “Take your time.”

Smug asshole. I turn on my heel, forcing myself to walk casually, even though my entire body feels overheated. Breathe. Walk normally. Don’t look like you’re fleeing. I weave through the dimly lit restaurant, avoiding eye contact and scowling at myself for that slip-up.

Idiot.

I push through the bathroom door, find myself blessedly alone, and walk straight to the sink, gripping the edges of the cool marble. Deep breath. I turn on the faucet and splash water onto my neck and my wrists. Pacing in front of the mirror, I shake out my hands, trying to release some of the tension curling in my stomach. Just a minor slip-up. That’s all this is. But for some reason, it feels like I just lost more than another round of our stupid back-and-forth. I stare at my reflection, jaw tight.

I need to get my head on straight. Because if I keep slipping like this, he’s going to see right through me. And the last thing I need is Grayson Cole having the upper hand.

Chapter 17

I wash my hands quickly, watching my own reflection as I school my features. Then I flip my hair upside down, shake it out, and smooth it back into place. Quick boob check—lift, adjust, perfect. I meet my own gaze in the mirror and nod once, full of silent, feminine determination.

Game on.

If he wants to push, I can push right back, tenfold.

Incoming, motherfucker.

I step out of the bathroom and back into the restaurant, head high, shoulders back. As I pass one of the tables, a man halfway through a bite pauses, jaw slowing as his gaze tracks me.

Recognition flashes across his face, the subtle shift from casual glance to is that her?

I don’t break stride. Just offer a smile and keep moving.

Grayson sits with his back to me, a fresh wineglass in my spot and a new drink in front of him. Our dinner plates have already been cleared.

As I approach, my fingertips trail over his left shoulder and then glide across to his right as I pass him. Ever so slightly, he tenses. I sink into my seat, cool and composed, and lift my fresh glass of wine to my lips. At the same time, I slide one leg against his and let it rest there, light and intentional.

“Sorry,” I say smoothly, my eyes meeting his. “The ravioli wasn’t sitting well.”

Grayson pins me with eyes. He leans back, slowly picking up his drink. “That so?”

I take a sip, a playful glint in my eye as I set my glass down, and then shift my ankle against his leg. “Thanks for the refill.”

Grayson tilts his head, watching me for a beat too long. Then, his mouth curves. He just realized the game isn’t as one-sided as he thought.