Page 76 of Surfer's Paradise

“Miss Quentin?”

Rosie blinked, setting down her water bottle.

“Greg will see you now.”

Rosie stepped into Greg Taylor’s office, and the first thing she noticed was the view.

Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the entire city, downtown San Diego stretching wide below, the ocean shimmering in the distance. The space itself was just as impressive—modern butwarm, earthy tones, dark wood, leather furniture that probably cost more than she’d made in her entire life.

And then there was Greg.

He stood as she entered, tall, broad-shouldered, fit in the way men his age rarely were. His grey hair was neatly trimmed, his face sharp, weathered in a way that spoke to years of experience.

His handshake was firm.

His grey eyes—cutting, intelligent, and unreadable— scanned her face like he was already trying to figure her out.

“Rosalie Quentin,” he said, giving her a nod of approval. “Glad you came.”

“Mr. Taylor,” she said, keeping her posture straight, professional.

He shook his head, already waving her into the seat across from his desk.

“Greg,” he corrected. “No formalities needed.”

Rosie nodded, crossing her legs as she settled in.

There was a beat of silence, a measured pause, as if he were considering how to start.

And then, in that direct, no-bullshit way she suspected he approached everything, he got right into it.

“I sponsor a local San Diego boys’ and girls’ mentorship program,” he said, leaning back slightly, resting one arm onthe desk. “It’s for vulnerable families—kids coming out of intervention programs, struggling home situations, that kind of thing. It’s something I’ve been involved with for years.”

Rosie sat up a little straighter.

“I saw your work at the gallery,” he continued, his sharp gaze never leaving hers. “And I’ll be honest—it stopped me in my tracks.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“That doesn’t happen often,” he admitted, a small, knowing smile pulling at his lips.

Heat flushed up her neck. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, firmly. “I was even more intrigued when I learned your story.”

Rosie stilled, her fingers tensing slightly in her lap.

Greg noticed.

He tilted his head. “That bother you?”

She hesitated. “I’m not used to people knowing my story. Not beyond what’s in my art.”

His sharp grey eyes softened just a little.

“Then I’ll keep it simple,” he said. “I think what you do—what you create—matters. And I want you involved in what I do.”

Rosie swallowed.

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