Page 69 of PR Stunt

I laugh lightly, twirling my wineglass in my hand. “Mm-hmm, something like that.”

“Speaking of which,” she continues, her excitement only growing, “your father and I have been binging all of Grayson’s movies!”

I pause mid-bite. Oh, no.

She gasps, like she just remembered something crucial. “And him in that Coast Guard movie? My goodness.”

I press a hand to my forehead. “Mom, can we not?”

“You really should watch it, honey!”

I quickly jump in before she can go any further. “How’s home? Miss you guys!”

Mom sighs. “We miss you more. We’re due for a visit. When can we see you?”

I glance at my packed schedule, picking a date a few weeks out. Shortly after I’m rid of Grayson.

“How about in a couple of weeks? Things should calm down by then.”

“Wonderful. We’ll plan it. So excited to meet Grayson.”

I clench my jaw. “Can’t wait.” Guilt hits hard.

“Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

I hang up, toss my phone onto the cushion beside me, and turn the tv volume back up. But I’m not really watching. I stare at the glowing screen, pizza crust in one hand, a stubborn ache in my lower back from the damn obstacle wall.

Eventually, I peel myself off the couch with a groan, rinse the glass, clean up the crumbs, and fold the greasy pizza box like that somehow counts as pulling myself together. Clean house, clean slate.

A few minutes later, I’m right back where I started, flopped into the couch again, blanket dragged over my lap, remote in one hand while the fireplace crackles across the room. I flip through channels for all of thirty seconds before curiosity wins.

Fine. One search. Strictly research.

I type his name into the search bar.

Grayson Cole Deep Water.

The tv app practically autofills it.

Coast Guard uniform. Dripping wet. Tan skin. Forearms. Veins. That jaw.

The first image that comes up is a still of him hauling someone out of the ocean, hair soaked, biceps flexed, grit written all over his face.

It’s absolutely ridiculous. No one should look like that while fake-rescuing people.

I click play. Just to confirm it’s overrated. For research.

Twenty minutes later, I’m slouched deeper into the cushions, glass forgotten, and still staring.

“This is fine,” I mumble to no one. “This is totally fine.”

Chapter 22

I sink deeper into my desk chair, fingers curled around the warm ceramic mug of my third coffee of the day. The late-afternoon sun streams through the windows, golden light stretching across my office and washing over the dark wood of my desk. The shelves are lined with books, framed photos, and awards. I shift, tugging my oversized sweater over my hands. The soft fabric is warm against my skin. My legs are curled beneath me, one knee propped up so I can balance my coffee against it. Across from me, Anna sits in one of the cream satin chairs, her phone in hand, one leg crossed over the other.

On my laptop screen, my What’s in My Bag video plays, the thumbnail frozen on a shot of me laughing, midsentence. It went live less than an hour ago, and I’m already scrolling through the comments. I smile a little, bringing my coffee to my lips.