Page 60 of PR Stunt

I arch a brow, keeping my expression neutral. “Mr. Cole.”

Luca leans toward Juno, whispering loudly, “I see what you mean now.”

Before I can shoot Luca a look, Grayson turns to him, extending a hand. “Luca, right?”

Luca blinks and then takes Grayson’s hand in a dazed handshake like he’s just won an Oscar by association. Juno mouths oh my god at me, barely holding in a laugh. This is getting out of hand.

Miranda pokes her head in. “Five minutes!”

Anna immediately switches into wrangler mode, clapping her hands. “Alright, let’s move. Out. Give them a moment to get into character.”

Juno and Luca exchange a look before standing, but of course, they can’t leave quietly. As they step past Grayson, they dramatically fan themselves behind his back, Juno lifting a brow, Luca biting his knuckle like he’s seconds from swooning. I glare at them, silently promising revenge. Anna doesn’t even bother acknowledging them. She just grips the door handle and, as she pulls it shut, tosses back a final instruction. “Remember, you’re in love!”

The door clicks.

The trailer feels smaller, despite everyone having left. I shift my weight, hyper-aware of the silence. Then Grayson takes a step toward me, hands slipping into the pockets of his shorts. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes boring into mine.

“You ready?”

I cross my arms. “Ready to murder you? Absolutely.”

His lips press together, his expression wicked across his face. “You know, if you channel that energy into the actual race, we might have a shot at winning.”

“Please. I could carry this team by myself.”

Grayson leans in slightly, voice smooth. “We’ll see if you’re still saying that when you’re struggling to keep up.”

“Look, as much as I loathe that you pulled me into this, I hate losing.”

His lips quirk, eyes darkening just a little. “Good to know you like being on top.”

How the hell does he anticipate these? It’s always something with him. A look, a comment, a stupid remark that somehow manages to crawl under my skin and set up camp. Quickly, the mental picture of pigeon poo smacking him square in the face fills my mind, and internally, I give an evil smile.

A sudden knock snaps the tension.

Miranda pokes her head in, all business. “You guys good?”

I jump back a step, my shoulder knocking into a cabinet, and stammer out, “Yes! We’re ready.”

One of Grayson’s brows arches, his delight barely masked. He steps aside, making a sweeping gesture toward the door. “After you.”

I force myself to move, stepping past him and down the trailer steps. Cameras rolling in three, two, one…and action. Once again, I slip into the role.

My posture straightens, my expression shifts with just enough warmth.

America’s sweetheart in love with Hollywood’s irresistible rebel.

I take in the course stretched out before us. Massive, winding, and designed to be challenging.

Production assistants buzz around, setting up cameras, adjusting mics, and briefing contestants. Grayson falls into stride beside me. At the starting line, three other teams are waiting. The first pair, a brother and sister singing duo, are deep in conversation strategizing. Next to them, a reality tv couple, coordinated in matching activewear, radiate the kind of confidence that comes from always being in front of a camera. A few feet away, a country singer and her partner, the lead on a crime tv show, stand side by side. She stretches her arms while he rolls out his shoulders. I’d say our biggest competitors. Grayson and I walk over to our designated spot. I shift my weight from foot to foot and then look up at him.

“Help me stretch?” I ask.

Grayson moves in beside me and adjusts my arm with an easy familiarity. I exhale as he pushes gently, deepening the stretch.

Under my breath, I murmur, “I think Savannah and Kole are the ones to watch.” I tilt my chin subtly toward the country singer and the actor.

Grayson follows my gaze and then nods in agreement, his grip still firm as he helps me switch sides. His large hands wrap around me with a quiet kind of strength. I can feel the flex of muscle beneath his skin, the press of his forearm against my waist, veins raised and visible.