Page 88 of PR Stunt

“No.” His hand shifts slightly at my waist.

The oversized hoodie hangs low on me, one of his sleeves swallowing half my hand where it rests against his shoulder. Bare feet against hardwood, bare legs exposed beneath the hem, I suddenly feel far too aware of how little distance there is between us.

He guides us through another slow step and then turns me without warning. The movement is easy, controlled, my bare feet sliding across the floor as the hoodie lifts with the spin, exposing more of my thighs than I mean to.

When I face him again, his eyes drop for half a second, tracing the movement before lifting back to mine.

His hand returns to my waist, this time drawing me closer, until there’s no room left to pretend this is just dancing.

The music downstairs hums faintly beneath everything else, but up here, all I hear is my own breathing. He lowers his head slightly, slow enough that I could stop it, slow enough that I know he’s giving me the choice.

His mouth brushes the curve just below my ear, barely there, more breath than contact, but it sends a shiver straight through me.

Without thinking, I tilt my head, angling my neck on instinct, inviting more before the thought can catch up with me.

His hand tightens once at my waist.

When he lifts his head again, our foreheads almost touch, and his breath is warm against my mouth now, close enough that every inhale feels shared.

Neither of us says anything.

His gaze drops once, to my lips, and then moves back to my eyes.

The room goes impossibly still.

Slowly, his hand leaves my waist and lifts to my face, fingers brushing a loose piece of hair back behind my ear with a care that feels almost unfair. His palm lingers there, warm against my cheek, his thumb tracing slowly along my jaw as if he’s giving himself one last second to decide.

I don’t move.

Neither does he, not fully, but the distance shifts anyway, so gradual that it barely registers until his mouth is closer, until my breath catches somewhere between us.

His gaze stays on mine, searching, waiting, and then drops again.

We lean in at the same time, slow enough that I feel every inch of it.

And then the music downstairs changes.

A bright, upbeat song bursts through the floorboards, and laughter follows it, sharp enough to snap the moment clean in half.

I blink, the spell breaking all at once, and take a quick step back, clearing my throat like that somehow steadies anything.

“Okay,” I say, smoothing a hand down the front of the hoodie and avoiding his eyes for half a second. “Let’s continue with the tour.”

I step back into the hall, my fingers trailing lightly along the wall as I move. Another door sits slightly ajar.

I push it open to reveal his bedroom. Grayson lingers in the hall behind me.

It’s dark outside, and the glass walls reveal the pool below, glowing blue against the night. I exhale slowly, leaning against the doorframe and taking it all in. And then, just as quickly, a new thought creeps in.

How many women have stood where I’m standing now? Has Lauren?

How many have sunk into that bed, wrapped in those sheets, surrounded by the same sparkling city lights? How many have trailed their fingers over his nightstand, left their heels by the door, woken up tangled against him in this very room? I hate that my stomach twists at the thought. Something about the idea about all the women who have been here before snaps me back to reality. The warmth from earlier evaporates, icing over as I push off the doorframe.

I clear my throat, forcing a casual tone. “Thanks for the tour. And for the food.”

I turn, brushing past him as I make my way back down the stairs with purpose. Each step feels heavier, like I’m putting distance between something I don’t want to admit was ever there. When I reach the main floor, I gather my dress and heels, clutching them tightly, as if that will steady me. I need to call a driver. As I move toward the front door, his voice comes, calm but firm.

“I’ll drive you home.”