Page 143 of Surfer's Paradise

Greg.

He offered the crook of his elbow. “Walk with me.”

She accepted it before thinking, her hand resting lightly against his tailored tuxedo sleeve. His presence was steadying—polished, calm, genuine.

He gestured for a passing waiter and topped off her glass. “Enjoy,” he said with a smile, nodding toward the garden path. “You deserve it.”

She followed.

Together, they walked past the glowing sculptures and into the quieter edges of the property. The murmur of clinking glasses and laughter trailed behind them like perfume.

“I wanted to say—your work is speaking volumes tonight,” Greg said, voice low, private. “The conversations it’s started… I had three guests tell me your paintings made them cry. You’ve cracked something open.”

Rosie flushed, overwhelmed. “Thank you. I’m still trying to believe this is all real.”

He looked at her sideways. “Believe it. That program we talked about? It’s getting traction already. The interest is real. My team is running the numbers. I think we can build something… permanent.”

She turned to look at him.

“You’re the heart of it,” Greg said, sincerely. “Not just the artist. The voice. The story.”

“Thank you so much. For everything.”

“I should say you’re welcome—but I don’t want to be thanked. This is all very selfish of me, and I’d rather you see that.”

Emotion flooded her. Grateful. Awed. Still unsure if she deserved any of it.

They stopped near the edge of the cliff, where a modern sculpture framed the ocean beyond. Greg took her empty glass and passed it off to a staff member. The moonlight caught her hair. She felt seen, not just looked at.

And then.

From the corner of her eye—

A shift. A shadow.

Isaac.

Leaning casually near a hedge, dark jacket open, whiskey glass in hand. Watching.

She froze for a split second.

He wasn’t part of this scene. He didn’t belong here. And he knew it.

Her stomach turned. Her jaw clenched.

She was being watched. And not by a stranger, but by the one person who’d had a thousand chances to stand beside her and never once knew how to.

Isaac’s eyes met hers—dark, unreadable. He looked too smug. Too intense. Too possessive.

Greg didn’t notice. He was speaking again. Something about board meetings, expansion, art therapy circles. Rosie forced her attention back to him.

Be present.

Stay focused.

You belong here.

Whatever Isaac thought he was doing—lurking like some brooding punk rock watchdog—he wasn’t going to ruin this.

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