Page 47 of Grizz

I open the cabinet, grab the bottle of Cabernet I stole from the Bartiz shoot.Slipped two bottles into my backpack while the chef was arguing with a PA about lighting.I grab two glasses and return to the living room.

“I snagged a few of these from the shoot,” I say, twisting out the cork.“Figured the chef owed me for making me say ‘luxurious notes of plum’ on camera.”

That earns a real smile from her—soft, amused, dancing across her mouth before she can hide it.

I pour her a glass, then myself one.

We drink, slow at first.Her foot brushes against mine.

We both finish our first glass faster than planned.The bottle’s still open.Pouring another feels natural, easy.

Daisy swirls her second glass absently, eyes on me rather than the wine.“So… casual, right?”she teases lightly.

“Right,” I echo, and it sounds far more strained than I want it to.

“I probably should get going,” she says, setting the half-full glass on the table.

“Don’t.”The word is out before I even realize I spoke.Daisy freezes, stares at me with apprehension.I can’t tell her that I don’t want her to go.That I’m not ready for her to go.But I can’t act as if I want this to be anything more than casual.“I’m going to fuck you again.”

Her eyes flash with heat and that’s good enough for me.That means she’s distracted by the sex and has no clue that I like her curled up next to me just a little too much.

What is she doing to me?This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.

Chapter 14

Daisy

Falliswellunderwayin New York City and the trees in Central Park are in that in-between phase, their greens giving up the fight, surrendering to golds and russets and fading coppers.Some branches are already bare, their leaves scattered across the paths like confetti.Others are still clinging to summer, stubborn and bright.

I walk south along Central Park’s edge, hands tucked into my coat pockets as a brisk breeze cuts across 59th and sends leaves spinning in little spirals at my feet.The aroma of roasted nuts from a nearby vendor cart makes my mouth water.

My scarf whips across my shoulder as another gust rushes between the buildings.I pull it tight, head down as I cut across Columbus Circle, and the wind catches me again, colder this time, threading icy fingers into the collar of my coat.

Everything has extra bite today and I suspect that’s because my body still remembers too much of last night.

I push that thought down.Deep down.

I’ll unpack it later—preferably never.

Right now, I’ve got another social obligation I can’t ignore… Elias’s twenty-seventh birthday party.

He chose to have his celebration at the Lava Lounge.Appropriately, the neon sign over the door flickers in a molten orange-red.As soon as I enter, the building emits a low pounding bass that vibrates through my joints.

Inside, it’s like stepping into a volcano-themed fever dream.The lighting is low and amber, pulsing like heat behind sheets of sculpted faux rock.A long bar is lit from underneath, glowing.Clusters of hanging lanterns ripple with flame-like patterns.The DJ booth sits under a structure shaped like a cracked crater.

And the place is packed.

Bodies move in the reddish light, dancing, talking, shouting over the music.Laughter bursts through the air.Girls in shimmering dresses weave through the crowd carrying tequila shots balanced on lava-stone serving trays.Someone’s wearing devil horns while another person swings a glow stick.

It is obnoxious and so entirely Elias’s scene.

And in the middle of the mayhem, I spot him, standing on a raised platform surrounded by friends and acquaintances, a ridiculous red silk shirt half unbuttoned, a birthday sash across his chest reading BORN HOTTER THAN HELL.

“DAAAAAISY TURNER!”he yells, spreading his arms wide.“You made it!”

He’s grinning with that charismatic, troublemaking energy he’s had since freshman year—magnetic and dangerous—drawing everyone close while simultaneously warning them not to ask too many follow-up questions.

“You look like a lava lamp,” I shout back as I reach him and hang my purse up in a safe spot.