Page 192 of Surfer's Paradise

“And this is what, Day Three of being your girlfriend?” she asked softly. “It’s been spicy.”

Isaac grinned slowly. “This is what happens when you love someone from the sidelines for too fucking long.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t break.

She just kissed him.

Soft and slow and grateful. And when she rested her head against him again, her hand found his, threading their fingers together.

Neither of them let go.

Chapter 37

The light in the kitchen was golden and soft, late afternoon sun filtering through the window over the sink. Rosie stood barefoot on the tile floor, humming to herself as she stirred a pan of garlicky cherry tomatoes and herbs. The kitchen smelled like summer—basil, lemon zest, toasted pine nuts. She’d even bought fresh pasta from the Italian place down the block because Isaac had mentioned once, offhandedly, that it reminded him of Sicily.

She glanced over at the clock.

Any minute now.

As if on cue, the front door opened with that familiar creak, followed by the heavy, booted steps of a man who never walked quietly.

Rosie smiled to herself and called, “Hey, hottie.”

Isaac’s voice was low, a little scratchy. “Hey, chef.”

She turned just in time to see him drop his keys in the bowl by the door and tug off the black ball cap he always wore to base. His hair was longer now, a little messy, still damp at the ends from a post-appointment shower. He looked good—broad shoulders in a plain gray tee, the edge of a fresh bandage beneath the fabric where the bullet wound on his ribs was still healing.

More importantly, he looked alive.

“Looks yum,” he said, already crossing the room to her. “So do you.”

She let him kiss her cheek, and then her neck, and then—okay, yeah, she had to gently swat him with the wooden spoon before he got tomato sauce in her hair.

“I’m trying to cook,” she teased.

“I’m trying to make out with my girlfriend,” he muttered into her skin, before pulling back with a small grin.

She softened, brushing a curl behind her ear. “How was the appointment?”

Isaac let out a breath, grabbing a cold can from the fridge and cracking it open. “Cleared to go back next week. Light duty for the first two, no diving, no training, just desk bullshit.”

Rosie glanced over her shoulder at him. “That’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking a long sip. “It’s good. I mean… I hate being off. Hate feeling useless.”

He leaned back against the counter, watching her now. Quiet for a second. Then: “But also…”

Rosie raised an eyebrow. “But also?”

He looked down into his drink, then back at her—serious, a little stunned by himself. “This was the longest I’ve been still in my whole damn life. And… I don’t know. It was hell, yeah. But it was also the only time I’ve ever actually built something that wasn’t mission-based.”

She stilled, wooden spoon in hand.

Isaac tilted his head. “I mean it. I’ve got a house that doesn’t feel like a hotel anymore. A hot bitch in my kitchen. Paintings on the wall. Groceries in the fridge. Laundry that smells like lemons.” He gave a soft, rough laugh. “I’ve got someone to call when I’m in pain. I’ve got someone to come home to. I’ve never had that.”

Rosie blinked, swallowing.

Isaac stepped toward her, took the spoon out of her hand, and set it gently in the pot.

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