Page 31 of Surfer's Paradise

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The house was quiet, except for the faint crash of waves outside, the distant hum of a car rolling through the sleepy Coronado streets. Rosie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her body restless and warm under the weight of the night.

She was wearing an oversized black t-shirt, the only thing she had to sleep in, the hem barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Her skin was still too heated from the day, from the residual buzz of success, from the tension that had been knotting tighter and tighter inside her since the moment she stepped into Isaac’s truck.

Isaac.

God.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

He was still there, burned into her thoughts. The sharp lines of his jaw, the way his forearms flexed as he gripped the steering wheel. The deep, lazy rasp of his voice when he told her she was gorgeous. Like it was just a fact. Like it wasn’t the single most dangerous thing he could have said to her.

She sighed, turning onto her side, but sleep wouldn’t come.

Her throat was dry.

She needed water.

Or maybe she just needed something to do that wasn’t lying here, stewing in her own insanity.

Kicking the blankets off, she padded softly into the hallway, the cool floor grounding her, the dim light from the kitchen barely spilling into the corridor. But as she took a step toward the sink, she hesitated.

Isaac’s bedroom door was ajar.

Her breath hitched.

She shouldn’t.

She should keep walking.

Instead, she took a step closer.

And then another.

Slow. Silent.

The dim blue-gray light from the window stretched across his room, illuminating the long, powerful lines of his body.

Rosie’s mouth went dry.

Isaac was sprawled on his back, one arm draped lazily over his stomach, the other stretched above his head, fingers curled against the pillow. The sheets were low—dangerously low—clinging to his hips, revealing the sculpted ridges of his stomach, the deep cut of his obliques.

She swallowed hard.

Jesus.

He was—

Fuck.

Her eyes dragged over him, slow and shameless.

The smooth plane of his chest, rising and falling with steady breaths. The muscle carved into his arms, ink curling over his skin, shifting with every slight movement.

She had never let herself look at him like this.

Not really.

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