Page 177 of Surfer's Paradise

So she pulled back slowly, their breaths mingling. She smiled against his mouth. “You know you’ll have to wear a suit, right?”

That startled him.

He blinked, pulling back an inch. “A suit?”

Rosie grinned, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “Yep. Red carpet. Black tie. You. In a tux.”

Isaac let out a groan and collapsed back onto the bed with a dramatic thud, dragging an arm over his face. “Fuck.”

She laughed for the first time that morning—really laughed—and let herself roll onto his chest, cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of it. “You’ll survive.”

He peeked out from under his arm with a skeptical look. “Do I have to shave?”

“Yes.”

“Double fuck.”

She kissed him again, softer this time. “You’ll look stupid hot. I’ll probably want to make out with you the whole night.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Quentin.”

And for a moment, the heaviness faded.

The knot in her stomach loosened.

But still, somewhere deep in her chest, she felt it—

The weight of yesterday.

And the silent question between them:

What happened in that alley, Isaac? And why are you looking at me like I’m made of glass?

She didn’t ask.

Not yet.

* * * * *

Rosie stepped out of the town car and into a world that didn’t feel like hers.

The heat of late July clung to the air, golden light catching on glass panels and manicured palms as the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego loomed above her—modern, sleek, expensive. Ahead: a red carpet rolled out like something from a dream she didn’t dare have. A crush of cameras. Security. Beautiful people in tailored clothes and expensive shoes.

Cultured. Juxtapoz. ArtForum.

Their banners fluttered in the breeze, bold reminders that this wasn’t some pop-up show in Echo Park. This was real. This was prestige.

And she? She was just trying not to puke.

Her heels hit the pavement with practiced care, but her knees felt like jelly. Her heart beat too fast. Her hands trembled as she reached for Isaac.

He was already there.

Tall. Solid. In a black suit that hugged his body like it had been custom-built to honor the sins of man. White shirt, open collar, tattoos ghosting up the neck, hair combed back clean. Dangerous didn’t begin to describe how he looked. But his eyes weren’t here for show. They were scanning—methodical, precise, predatory.

Rosie glanced up at him, tried to joke, tried to ease the tension. “You look like you’re about to throw someone into traffic.”

“Let me do my job,” he muttered, low, like a warning. “I’m not here to charm the press—I’m here to make sure you don’t get fucking trampled.”

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