Page 127 of Surfer's Paradise

Tall. Commanding. Handsome in his perfectly tailored suit, silver hair sharp under the dimmed golden light.

He smiled, genuine.

And then—his hand was on her lower back, businesslike but flirtatious.

Cool. Steady. Confident.

His lips brushed her cheek in greeting.

“Rosie,” he said smoothly, his voice warm, appreciative. “Thank you for coming.”

Rosie exhaled, forcing a smile.

Because here—tonight—she wasn’t going to feel like the girl who couldn’t afford food.

Tonight, she was going to be Rosalie Quentin, an artist worth investing in.

She let Greg guide her to the table.

She let him seat her, elegant, controlled, precise.

And for the first time in a long time, she let herself pretend she wasn’t starving.

* * * * *

Rosie’s fingers curled around the crystal stem of her wine glass, cool against her skin as she brought it to her lips. The rich, full-bodied red washed over her tongue, velvety and bold, with hints of black cherry, spice, and oak—one of those perfectly aged, ridiculously expensive bottles she would never buy for herself.

The restaurant was the kind of place that didn’t just serve food—it curated an experience.

Soft, ambient golden lighting cast a warm glow over the polished mahogany tables. The hum of low conversation and quiet laughter filled the space, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass against porcelain. White-gloved servers moved through the room with precise elegance, pouring wines, presenting dishes like they were unveiling priceless works of art.

And the food—God, the food.

It started with a selection of delicate appetizers—a tartare of A5 wagyu, topped with caviar and a drizzle of black garlic aioli; a freshly baked sourdough boule, served with whipped truffle butter so decadent it practically melted on her tongue; and aburrata salad, its creamy center spilling over a bed of heirloom tomatoes, drizzled with aged balsamic.

She had to force herself to eat slowly, to savor it, even as her body wanted to devour everything in front of her.

Greg watched her with quiet amusement, his own wine swirling in his glass.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” he noted, eyes sharp, assessing.

Rosie set her glass down, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. “It’s incredible,” she admitted.

Greg leaned back slightly, his weathered but refined features thoughtful. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t let herself indulge often.”

Rosie hesitated, then shrugged. “Some people aren’t built for luxury.”

Greg’s lips curved, but there was something else in his gaze now—understanding. Recognition.

“Neither was I,” he said.

Rosie glanced up. “No?”

Greg exhaled, setting his glass down. “I was in the system, too.”

Rosie’s fingers froze over her napkin.

She hadn’t expected that.

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