Page 68 of PR Stunt

“I told you I can’t deal with this right now,” Grayson says. His voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it. “No, I didn’t forget. I’ve just been in the middle of something… I’ll send it.”

My stomach turns. I shift slightly, careful not to make a sound as I peek around the edge of the car. He stands alone near the loading zone, shoulders tense, head bowed slightly like the weight of the call is pressing down. One hand curls into a fist at his side, the other grips the phone.

“I wired you money last week. What happened to it?” A pause. “I’m not trying to start anything.” A beat. Then, quieter, more tired. “I can’t keep having the same conversation with you.”

Another pause. “I’ll call you later. Yes, yes. I’ll see you at mine.”

He ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket, only to turn and find me standing there. His entire posture shifts. The charm he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “How long were you standing there?”

“Not long,” I lie. “I was just…heading to my ride.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes are guarded now, shuttered like a door closing between us. “I’ll see you at the gala,” he says, clipped.

Then he turns and walks away. I stay where I am, pulse uneven, his words still replaying in my head.

Once I’m home, the silence of my house is almost jarring after the whirlwind of the day. I stand in my bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, and I almost don’t recognize the person looking back. Caked in dried mud. Hair stiff, tangled. Dark streaks down my face where sweat and dirt mixed together. Mascara? Gone. Dignity? Also gone.

I should be thinking about washing off this. Or how my calves feel like they’ve been run over by a truck. Instead, all I can hear is his voice. That clipped edge. The tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw locked when he saw me. I don’t know who he was talking to. Who would even get under his skin like that? Is he seeing someone in secret?

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. The mud smears worse, and somehow, that’s what breaks me. A small giggle slips out despite myself. Because, objectively, I look ridiculous. I tilt my head, quietly admitting, for one second, that this is actually funny. And fine, a little freeing, not that I’d ever confess that to anyone.

With a sigh, I grab my phone off the counter, switch to the front camera, and snap a quick, unfiltered selfie. Eyes closed, a halfhearted thumbs-up, a mud-streaked smile.

I type out: Just a tad muddy. Add a thumbs-up emoji. I story it. Then immediately toss my phone onto the counter.

I peel off my sports bra, the stiff fabric cracking. My leggings hit the floor with a wet crunch. I step into the shower and crank the water as hot as I can take it. The second it hits my skin, a low groan escapes me.

Steam curls around me, thick and heady. I tilt my head back, letting the heat melt the stiffness from my muscles. The water runs brown for minutes. Dirt slides off my skin in ribbons, circling the drain. I lather on way too much soap, scrubbing until I feel like my body actually belongs to me again. I rake my fingers through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp and watching more mud swirl away. Letting my mind drift, against my will, to Grayson.

How he looked. Hair damp with sweat, streaks of grime across his cheekbones. Forearms flexing with every move. How he ran. Strong, steady, fast. Completely in control. How his shirt stuck to his skin, mud clinging to him like it had a death wish. How he scooped me up after we won, arms locked around me, spinning me around.

My hands keep moving, smoothing over my skin, soap gliding beneath my palms. I close my eyes. A shiver trails down my spine. Heat curls low in my belly. A slow pulse builds, pressing deep. I freeze.

I grab my shampoo and scrub harder. Like I can wash him out of my head. I just need wine. Food. Sleep.

And to never think about Grayson Cole that way again.

By the time I’m downstairs, the sun has set, the last of its warmth filtering through the windows while the fireplace flickers nearby, filling the room with cozy heat. I sink into the couch, wrapped in my robe, feet tucked beneath me, with a reality show playing softly in the background.

In one hand, a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc. In the other, a hot slice of pizza, grease glistening, cheese stretching as I take a bite. The open box sits on the coffee table, a half-finished garlic dip container beside it. For the first time all day, my shoulders relax. My phone buzzes.

Every. Dang. Time.

I glance at the screen. A smile tugs at my lips as I grab my phone, turning down the volume on the tv.

“Hi, Mom!”

Her voice comes through, brimming with excitement. “Oh my gosh, Charlie!”

I grin, taking another sip of wine. “Hi, hi! What’s up?”

“You did amazing in that race, sweetie! And you and Grayson—oh, you two make the perfect pair.”

I nearly choke on my wine.

I reach for another slice of pizza. “Oh, you know. Just…playing the part.”

“Exactly!” she gushes. “You two just have that magnetic chemistry. It’s like watching a real movie romance unfold.”