Daisy #2
My throat dries and Julian offers a clipped smile—a dismissal wrapped in civility—and turns back to Carolina.
And just like that, the success of the entire evening shifts squarely onto my shoulders and the reality of the task presses in.
I move through the crowd, dodging servers with trays of champagne that never stops flowing, the giggling clusters of donors leaning a little too heavily on their drinks, the tables full of competition and adrenaline.
The air feels charged, and all I can picture is Grizz in the middle of this, fueled by emotion, by instinct, by anything that might set him off.
I move through the room faster. The whole space feels electric, on the verge of erupting, and I can’t shake the sense that I’m running out of time.
That my entire job depends on me finding Grizz before disaster strikes.
Where is he?
I scan the bar.
Nothing.
I look at the blackjack tables.
Not there.
The corners of the salon, the alcoves near the windows—
No sign.
My worry presses harder with every step.
What if he’s already had too much to drink?
What if someone said the wrong thing?
But then, I see him.
And for a moment, I stop breathing.
He’s standing near an alcove carved into the far wall, the amber light pooling around him. His tux jacket is slung over a chair beside him; his sleeves are rolled up, exposing strong forearms that look capable of both gentleness and absolute havoc, and I know this from personal experience.
But that isn’t what freezes me in place.
It’s the little boy in his arms.
A tiny kid in a miniature tuxedo, cheeks flushed pink with excitement, bow tie crooked, clutching a toy race car in one hand while the other clings easily to Grizz’s shirt. The boy giggles at whatever Grizz says, and Grizz laughs too. I can’t hear it, but I can see the mutual joy in their faces.
He props the child higher on his hip with ease, one broad hand braced across the boy’s back, instinctive and protective. He listens attentively as the boy’s parents speak, and then he inclines his head just enough so the kid can show him his toy car.
It is effortlessly tender and completely disarming.
And nothing like the man I’ve spent the last month bracing myself against.
I wasn’t prepared to feel this type of emotion tonight.
The parents thank him, the kid gives him a triumphant high-five, and the little family drifts toward the dessert spread.
Grizz stays where he is for a moment, adjusting his cuffs, relaxing his shoulders, and I realize I haven’t moved, haven’t blinked since I’m not fully recovered from what I just saw.
He senses me before I reach him. His head lifts, eyes meeting mine across the floor.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rumbling. His eyes roam over me, taking in the low cut, black evening gown I chose for tonight.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The energy between us is… careful. It’s polite, a show for everyone else, because not but a few hours ago, he was wringing out a brutal orgasm from my body and making me see stars.
“You look… different,” Grizz says finally, eyes sweeping over my dress before he catches himself.
“Good different or bad different?”
His mouth twitches. “Different different.”
I flush, and he quickly softens. “Good different,” he adds quickly, as if he wasn’t sure I needed the extra reassurance but wanted to offer it anyway. “Sexy different.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and force myself to breathe normally. “Well… you clean up nicely too.”
He smirks. “I usually do.”
I clear my throat, remembering why I came over. “Actually, can I borrow you for a second? I need a quick photo of you with Tanner, Coen, and Barrett for a press piece we’re doing tomorrow.”
“Lead the way,” he says.
I gather the players near a set of towering floor-to-ceiling windows.
The city lights glitter behind them like a second chandelier.
Tanner is already posing before the photographer has even set up the lighting.
Coen Highsmith, a seriously good player traded from the Pittsburgh Titans last year, goes for the classic serious athlete stance while Barrett squints.
Grizz stands in the center, relaxed but steady.
“Perfect,” I say as the press photographer snaps three shots in a row. “Thank you, guys.”
“I always play by the rules,” says Barrett, shooting me a wink.
“You haven’t played by any rules since you started coloring outside the lines in kindergarten,” Coen chirps.
The guys then disperse in different directions—Tanner right back to roulette, Coen back to his wife, Tillie, who is one of my favorite player wives—leaving Grizz only a few steps away.
I’m about to walk over to him, to ask something inconsequential just to have a reason to stay near him, when I see her.
A blond woman who’s young, strikingly pretty, wearing a dress that seems engineered to draw gasps, walks straight toward him with a purposeful stride.
She smiles and speaks to him, which I can’t hear over the music and chatter, but her body language is unmistakable…
bright smile, hand brushing her hair, shoulders angled toward him with interest. Grizz listens, nods, responding politely enough that it doesn’t look like flirting, but also not so closed off that it appears rude.
Then she leans in.
Her hand touches his arm and I feel it everywhere.
They continue talking, she laughs at whatever he says, and he rubs the back of his neck the way he does when he’s uncomfortable. I can’t hear a word, but everything about their proximity reads intimate.
Finally, she steps closer, loops an arm casually around his waist, and gives him a warm, lingering hug.
I inhale deeply without meaning to. Every instinct within me says to insert myself into that scenario, and… do what? Stake my claim? Ensure that Grizz isn’t screwing around on me? I mean… we never agreed to monogamy, and I don’t know if I have the right to even feel jealous.
Before I can decide what to do, Grizz pulls away and it looks like he might be trying to distance himself. The woman says something else, making his eyebrow lift, but then she gives him one last smile and walks off, disappearing into the crowd.
Grizz turns and catches me looking. There’s no way to pretend I wasn’t watching. I’m terrible at feigning indifference, and he knows it.
He walks over, the noise of the room dimming as he approaches. “You okay?” he asks when he reaches me.
“Fine,” I say too quickly. “Totally fine.”
His mouth curves. “Right.”
A chill races down my spine.
“You have a question?” he says.
I take a breath, then offer the least self-incriminating version of the truth. “Who was that?”
“Someone who wanted my attention,” he says easily.
I try not to react. “What did she want?”
He shrugs. “She asked if I wanted to go to some party after this. Her friends rented out a loft downtown.”
I nod, pretending this information means nothing. “And… are you going?”
He watches me for a second, eyes steady in a way that makes it impossible to hide behind the polite mask I’m trying to hold up.
“No,” he says simply.
Pressure builds behind my words. “Why not?”
He steps closer to me and his voice drops. “Because I’m going home with you, and you can’t even begin to imagine the dirty things I’m going to do.”
I swallow, pulse loud in my ears. “You—you can’t just say that,” I whisper.
His eyes never leave mine. “I can if it’s true.”