Page 43 of Surfer's Paradise

Then opened them again.

Back to work.

Back to protocol.

Back to pretending this wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’d ever felt.

Chapter 8

Rosie woke slow and heavy, the weight of sleep clinging to her like she was sinking in something deep, something impossible to claw her way out of.

For a moment, she just breathed.

The sheets were warm, the room quiet except for the distant murmur of waves outside the window. It was too easy to stay here, wrapped up in the ghost of last night, in the scent of him still lingering on the pillow, on her skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Holy fuck.

She was in Isaac’s bed.

The realization hit hard, a dull ache blooming in her chest.

What the hell was she thinking?

Rosie groaned, rolling onto her stomach, pressing her face into his pillow like it could somehow drown out the feeling of him still on her body. His arms around her, the warmth of his breath against her hair, the quiet, unbearable intimacy of being held by him.

She should’ve never let herself get that close again.

Not when she knew better.

Not when he wasn’t hers.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, gripping the fabric like she could pull herself back into reality. She wouldn’t be this girl.

The one who let herself hope.

The one who wanted things that weren’t hers to have.

She exhaled sharply and rolled over, reaching for her phone on the nightstand.

One message. Isaac.

6:02 AM.

I had to go to work. You know the drill—won’t have my phone.

But you are staying here now.

Help yourself to everything and anything.

I left a house key on the counter.

Do your thing. I’ll be back around dinner time, hopefully. Never any guarantees with this place.

Rosie stared at the words, her stomach twisting.

There he went again. Deciding things for her.

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