Page 126 of Surfer's Paradise

A touch of blush on her hollowed-out cheeks, trying to hide the fact that she hadn’t eaten a full meal in days.

Her stilettos clicked against the cracked pavement as she stepped outside the studio, the dry heat of the evening wrapping around her like a second skin.

The air smelled of asphalt and paint, warm citrus from the fruit vendors down the block, and the distant salt of the Pacific.

Greg Taylor had sent a car.

She almost hadn’t accepted.

But this wasn’t charity.

This was business.

And if she was ever going to claw her way out of this life, if she was ever going to stand on her own two feet, she had to be okay with taking help that didn’t come with strings attached.

Greg was different.

Greg was offering her something real.

She slid into the cool, pristine interior of the black town car, her fingers smoothing over the supple leather as the door shut behind her.

The driver pulled into traffic, heading toward the city, toward a restaurant she couldn’t afford to walk into on her own.

She exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness in her stomach.

She had told Greg she was working late at the studio.

But when he had casually asked where she lived, she hadn’t hesitated to tell the truth.

“For now? The studio.”

No shame.

No embarrassment.

Because this was temporary.

It had to be.

She stared out the window as the city blurred past, the lights of downtown flickering like fireflies against the violet sky.

By the time the car pulled up to the curb, Rosie forced herself to square her shoulders, lift her chin, step out like she belonged here.

The restaurant was sleek, modern, beautiful.

A place where people like Greg Taylor belonged.

Not her.

But she wouldn’t let herself think that way.

She stepped inside, the rush of air conditioning hitting her skin, cooling the sweat at the back of her neck.

The scent of expensive wine, charred steak, truffle oil, and money wrapped around her as she scanned the room.

Greg spotted her first.

He stood immediately.

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