Page 83 of Grizz

The blond laughs, closer now, her shoulder brushing my arm.“Is that why you’re sitting alone?”

I glance at my glass.“I’m waiting for a couple people.”

“Oh,” she says, not retreating.“Lucky them.”

“Very,” I say, and mean it.

The brunette studies me more closely now.“You don’t flirt like I expected.”

“Is that a complaint?”I ask.

“It’s an observation,” she says.“You’re friendly.But you’re…”

I shrug.“Maybe I’m conserving energy.”

“For the game?”the blond asks.

“For life,” I reply.

That earns another laugh.But I draw an invisible line I’m not crossing, a door I’m not opening.The flirting softens, becomes more conversational and less pointed.

“Well,” the brunette says after a moment, “it was nice proving we were right about you being…”

“Funny and witty?”

“Exactly,” she says.“Not just intimidating.”

I lift my glass slightly.“I’ll take that.”

They step away, but the blond hesitates, turning back.She reaches into her purse, pulls out a pen, scribbles something quickly on a napkin, and slides it across the bar toward me.

“Just in case,” she says, meeting my eyes.

The two women then disappear into the crowd.I take a sip as I look at the ten-digit number.I know how these scenarios have ended historically.

These days, though, I have zero interest in going down that path.I crumple the napkin up, tossing it down by my drink on the bar.

Then I feel another presence emerge, closer than usual.

Elias.

He clocks the napkin and then looks up at me with a grin that’s entirely too knowing as he approaches.“Wow,” he says, sliding onto the stool beside me.“Daisy leaves you alone for five minutes and you’re already snagging numbers from women.”

I take another sip of whiskey, ignoring the dig.He sees it crumpled up, already an afterthought in my eyes.“You’re late.”

He smiles.“You’re early.”

The bartender appears.I order another whiskey and Elias orders a gin martini.I glance at my phone again because still no Daisy and this is my version of hell to have to sit here awkwardly with this dude until she arrives.

Elias leans back, relaxed.He sips at his martini, comfortable in the silence between us, which irritates me.On the surface, we look like we could be friends or at least friendly acquaintances.Two men sitting shoulder to shoulder, glasses in hand, exchanging easy small talk that looks functional from the outside.

Underneath that?There’s friction—taut and unsettled.

“So,” Elias says lightly, lifting his glass.“How’s the season treating you?”

“Good,” I reply, checking my watch again.“Busy.”

“Busy is good,” he says.“Busy means purpose.”