Page 12 of Surfer's Paradise

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”

And then?

He heard a siren in the distance, sobering him. He turned.

And for the first time in a long time, he walked away first.

Chapter 4

The next evening, Rosie had a headache before she even walked into the gallery.

Not from drinking—she’d barely had a single cocktail last night.

Not from lack of sleep—though she’d tossed and turned for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying Isaac’s mouth on hers, his hands caging her in, the weight of his body so close.

No, the headache was from all of it. From him. From the fact that today was supposed to be a fresh start, a huge moment for her, and instead, all she could think about was the way he’d pinned her to that wall and kissed her like he had every right to.

She exhaled sharply, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder as she stepped through the doors of The Haven Gallery, an intimate but high-profile space in the Gaslamp Quarter that specialized in showcasing emerging artists.

It was the perfect place for her. A place that could actually push her career forward, introduce her to collectors, critics, real opportunities beyond just the indie circuit in L.A.

And yet—

Her skin buzzed with nerves.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her dark green wrap dress, heels clicking against the polished floor as she took in the space. The walls were clean, minimal, letting the artwork command the room.

And there they were.

Her pieces.

The Unclaimed series.

Rosie swallowed hard, staring at them—the fragments of herself, stretched out across the walls in paint and texture and raw, unfiltered memory.

Each piece told a story. Of loneliness. Of waiting. Of being a child who belonged to no one.

She wrapped her arms around herself, exhaling slowly. This was it. This was the moment she had worked for.

And she’d be damned if she let Isaac fucking Rayleigh take up any more space in her head today.

“Rosie!”

She turned at the sound of her name, spotting Amy Marshall, her gallery rep, waving her over. Amy was sharp, put-together, the kind of woman who could sell a painting with two sentences and a well-timed smile.

“You ready for this?” Amy grinned, pressing a glass of champagne into Rosie’s hand. “We’ve got a great crowd coming tonight—collectors, press, a few people from the San Diego Museum of Art. You’re in the big leagues now.”

Rosie smiled, but it felt tight, too controlled. “No pressure, right?”

Amy squeezed her arm. “You’re going to kill it. I can already tell people are obsessed with the work.”

Rosie nodded, trying to let that sink in. Trying to let herself believe it.

But as the doors opened, as the first waves of guests started filtering in, as the space filled with murmurs and clinking glasses and the energy of something real and important happening—

She felt it.

A presence.

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