Page 46 of Surfer's Paradise

And stared.

Jesus.

It was full.

Not just full.

Stocked.

Top-shelf yogurt.

Fresh fruit—berries, pineapple, mango, things she never let herself buy.

Coffee. Real coffee.

Not black.

Not powdered.

Cream.

She felt guilty.

She shouldn’t take anything. She didn’t belong here.

But she was hungry. And for once, she let herself have it. A coffee, made exactly the way she liked it. A yogurt, thick and smooth and stupidly good. A handful of fruit that she’d neversplurge on herself. She took the first bite slowly, letting herself savor it.

God.

She swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the counter. She was not used to this. But maybe—just for today—she wouldn’t fight it.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Amy—who had basically become her San Diego talent manager. She picked it up, scrolling through her calendar. Meetings today. A follow-up call with the gallery. A sit-down with Greg Taylor’s team to discuss the potential commission. A lunch meeting with an art rep who might be able to help her break further into the San Diego scene.

Time to get at it.

Rosie exhaled, rolling her shoulders back.

She might be living in someone else’s world for now.

But she’d make damn sure she built her own.

Chapter 9

By Monday evening, the day had been long as hell, but Isaac still wasn’t done. He could feel it—that restless energy still burning under his skin, never fully drained.

SEAL life did that to a man. It wired you differently. There was no such thing as stopping. No such thing as just enough.

It was always more.

More training, more grinding, more pushing until you hit the wall—then finding a way to break straight through it.

Isaac wiped the sweat from his brow as he finished his laps in the pool, pulling himself out of the water in one smooth motion, shoulders burning from another grueling two-hour dive workout. His trainer, Trace, was already waiting for him on the deck, stopwatch in hand, shaking his head with that same deadpan disapproval.

“You’re overdoing it,” Trace said. “Again.”

Isaac grabbed a towel, shaking out his wet hair, unapologetic.

“Didn’t hear you stopping me.”

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