Page 178 of Surfer's Paradise

The look he gave her was full of something raw. Fierce. And she almost melted into it.

Except her stomach was in her throat.

She adjusted the strap of her gown—a silky black slip that clung like paint to every line of her—and tried to take a breath. Her hair was styled in soft waves, her makeup flawless thanks to Amy’s people, but she felt like a walking illusion. Just three weeks ago, she was crashing on a couch in East L.A. with twenty bucks in her wallet and nowhere to be. And now?

Now they were announcing her name like it meant something.

“Rosalie Quentin! Rosalie, this way please!”

A photographer waved.

Rosie blinked, dazed.

“C’mere,” Isaac said, tightening his arm around her waist. His voice dipped low, only for her. “Smile. One foot in front of the other. I’ve got you.”

And God help her, he did.

Even if she had no idea what she was walking into.

Inside, the museum was glowing.

Warm light spilled out from the high-glass walls, illuminating everything with a golden, dreamy haze. Inside, the crowd pulsed—dresses shimmering, champagne flutes catching the light, velvet ropes parting for photographers and collectors and critics with silver hair and polished smiles.

Rosie had never felt smaller in her life.

And yet… never more seen.

Her heels clicked against the polished concrete as Isaac guided her through the entrance with a hand firm and low on her back. The buzz of conversations swelled around them—compliments, introductions, nods of recognition. A few people actually knew who she was. Rosalie Quentin. Artist. Newest name on the Cultured Magazine “25 to Watch.”

But Rosie wasn’t watching the crowd.

She was watching Isaac.

He hadn’t smiled since they got out of the car. Not once.

His jaw was locked. Eyes scanning every inch of the space. He looked like he’d been carved out of storm clouds and sharpened steel. Not a plus-one, not a date—something else entirely. Like her bodyguard. Like a soldier.

She leaned in closer as a group of gallerists passed, champagne in hand, nodding politely at her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

That was a lie. She could feel the heat in him, the pressure rolling off his body like thunder. Every time a man looked at her too long—or worse, introduced himself with a smile—she felt Isaac’s hand tighten at her waist. Possessive. Tense.

And it wasn’t just jealousy.

It was deeper. Darker. Haunted.

Like he was bracing for something to go wrong.

Rosie was breathless. Partly from the attention. Mostly from him.

She turned toward him near a corner where the light spilled just right over a sculpture installation. “Isaac…”

He pulled her in by the waist.

Not gently.

His mouth dropped near her ear. His breath was hot against her skin. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me in this dress.”

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