Page 140 of Surfer's Paradise

He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.

When did this happen?

When had he stopped seeing her as his childhood best friend and started seeing her as…

This?

This woman.

This stunning, luminous, glittering force.

He couldn’t walk over now.

He needed a second.

Needed to collect himself, reset, get his head right before he said something he couldn’t unsay.

Because she wasn’t Rosie-the-girl-next-door anymore.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she was the star of the fucking show.

And for the first time in his life, he felt completely out of his league.

Isaac pulled his gaze away and exhaled. Okay, he was doing this. Time to get settled. He made his way to the bar. The bartender, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, raised an eyebrow as Isaac approached.

“Whiskey, neat,” Isaac ordered, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The bartender nodded, pouring the amber liquid into a glass and sliding it over. Isaac took it with a curt nod, downing it in one go. The burn was immediate, a welcome distraction from the ache in his ribs—a lingering souvenir from the dive accident. The pain meds dulled the discomfort, but combined with the alcohol, they cast a hazy veil over his senses.

Ignoring the warning bells in his mind about mixing substances, he ordered another. And another. Each drink blurred the edges of his anxiety, replacing it with a misguided bravado.

Emboldened, he approached a cluster of attendees near one of Rosie’s pieces—a striking abstract that commanded attention. They turned as he joined them, their expressions a mix of curiosity and polite interest.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Isaac remarked, gesturing to the artwork.

“Indeed,” a woman replied, her tone cultured. “Are you familiar with the artist?”

He flashed a grin, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “You could say that. We’ve shared studio space for years. Part of the same collective.”.

“Really?” another man chimed in, adjusting his glasses. “Which medium do you specialize in?”

Isaac’s mind raced, grasping for artistic jargon he’d picked up over time. “Mixed media, mostly. A blend of sculptureand digital installations. Exploring the dichotomy of human existence and technology.”

It sounded pretentious enough to be believable.

They nodded appreciatively, the conversation flowing with ease. Isaac regaled them with fabricated tales of artistic endeavors, each more elaborate than the last. He reveled in the attention, the laughter, the way they hung on his words.

But beneath the surface, a storm brewed. The combination of alcohol and medication muddled his thoughts, blurring the line between reality and the persona he’d adopted.

Chapter 27

C

hapter 27

Rosie stood near the far edge of the gallery, clutching her wine glass in one hand, the stem damp from her sweating fingers. Her other arm was pressed loosely across her waist, posed, casual, professional. Or trying to be.

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