Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
The elevator suddenly feels too quiet.
“What is it?” Daisy asks.
I lock the phone, shove it into my pocket, and stab the button for my floor. “Nothing.”
But she’s already seen the change in me. She’s too damn perceptive for her own good. “Grizz,” she presses gently. “What happened?”
It’s that tone that undoes me… like she really cares. I rake my hands through my hair and take a step until my back hits the wall, because suddenly I’m not in the mood for sex or flirting or pretending my dad’s decline doesn’t crawl under my skin like concertina wire.
“That was a text from my sister,” I mutter. “She said my dad had another bad day. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Daisy studies me. And it irritates the hell out of me that she can read what’s behind my eyes when most people don’t even try. I’m both touched and scared of it at the same time. The elevator chimes, indicating arrival on my floor, and the doors slide open.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Let’s just… have a drink.” It’s the only thing I can think to do that doesn’t involve talking or running.
She follows me quietly and waits for me to unlock the door. I push it open and let her step inside first. I shrug out of my tuxedo jacket, unknot the tie as I move to the butler’s pantry. I grab the second bottle of red I stole from Bartiz after the shoot, and pull two glasses from the cabinet.
Daisy shrugs out of her coat. Why do I like it so much that she’s comfortable enough in my home to slip off her shoes? She’s quiet but present as she sits on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under her, dress riding high on her thighs and momentarily distracting me in all the ways I don’t want to pay attention to right now.
I sink into the opposite end and pour two glasses, handing her one.
For a minute, we don’t speak. The silence should feel heavy, but it… doesn’t. It’s calmer than the static in my head, calmer than the noise of tonight’s casino party echoing through my bones.
She takes a sip. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
She nods once, accepting it without pressing. I’m grateful and resentful at the same damn time.
I take a drink too big to enjoy and clear my throat. “How’ve you been doing?”
Her lips twitch and she’s trying not to smile. “Really? We’re doing small talk now?”
“What’s wrong with small talk?”
“Nothing. Except…” She gives me a pointed look over the rim of her glass. “You’re breaking your own rule.”
I freeze.
“What rule?” I ask, even though I know exactly which one.
She raises her brows. “The no-feelings, no-talking-about-our-days rule. ‘Sex only,’ remember? Your phrase, not mine.”
I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck. It’s not embarrassment but rather irritation that she’s right. That she caught me caring. That I didn’t even notice I’d slipped.
“I was just trying to make conversation,” I mutter.
“Mmm.” She sips again, eyes on me. “Sounds dangerously close to asking about my life, Grizz.”
I want to snap back. Tease her. Drag her into my lap. Anything to wipe that knowing look off her face.
Instead, I say a truth out loud that even I don’t expect. “You smiled.”
Her brows pull together. “What?”
“Before. When I asked how you’ve been.” I swallow hard. “You smiled like… you thought something.”
She tries to hide it—too late.
“What were you smiling about?” I ask, voice rougher.
She hesitates, then says simply, “You. Breaking your own rule.”
“Don’t read into it,” I mutter.
She folds one leg over the other, leaning back, unconvinced. “You’re the one who asked.”
I should stop here and steer us back to where we’re safe—sex, teasing, anything but feelings.
“You think I don’t notice things?” I ask. “Like when you get quiet before you ask a hard question. Or how your whole face softens when you talk about fashion. Or how you pretend you hate attention but walk into a room like you own it.”
Her breath catches, barely. “Grizz…”
“No,” I cut in. “Don’t ‘Grizz’ me. I see things too. I just don’t talk about them.”
She sets her wine down, studying me with that unnerving mix of gentleness and resolve that makes me want to climb walls. “Then why are you talking now?”
Good question.
A better one… why does talking to her—this woman I was supposed to keep at arm’s length—feel less suffocating than keeping my mouth shut?
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “Maybe because you’re the only person who isn’t afraid to actually see me.”
“Grizz…” Her voice is soft but also feels like it could open me to my core.
I look away instantly, a muscle jumping in my cheek. And just like that, the instinct slams back into place. This is why the rule exists. This is why I made it.