Page 128 of Surfer's Paradise

Greg’s expression remained measured, composed, but there was a weight behind his words. “Group homes, foster families. The whole cycle. I lived it.”

Rosie swallowed, feeling her pulse pick up slightly.

“You… pulled yourself up from nothing?” she asked, voice quiet, careful.

A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. “I did.” He studied her for a beat. “And so will you.”

Something twisted inside her.

That certainty. That belief.

It was something she rarely heard.

And even more rarely from someone who understood.

The next course arrived—butter-poached lobster, served with saffron risotto, finished with microgreens and a delicate citrus beurre blanc.

Rosie picked up her fork, but she barely noticed the food now.

Greg took a sip of his wine before resting his elbows lightly on the table. “Your work does something people don’t expect.”

Rosie tilted her head, listening.

He gestured slightly, thoughtful. “It starts conversations that never happen.”

She swallowed.

Greg leaned forward slightly. “I watched people at the gallery, Rosie. Strangers—parents, professionals, politicians—standing in front of your paintings, discussing the perspective of a child in the foster care system.”

His voice dropped slightly, more intense now.

“When do you ever hear that? When do people ever talk about what it’s like to be that kid?” He shook his head. “They don’t. Because it’s too uncomfortable. Because it’s easier to pretend it’s just a statistic.”

Rosie’s chest felt tight.

Greg exhaled, sitting back. “But your work forced them to see it. To feel it.” He paused, his gray eyes locking onto hers. “Art is supposed to challenge people. Inspire them. Make them uncomfortable enough to care.”

Rosie gripped her napkin, nodding slowly. “That’s the whole point. It’s why I paint. It’s not just about trauma. It’s about… hope.”

Greg’s gaze flickered with something like approval.

“Hope is the most powerful thing you can give someone,” he said quietly.

Rosie’s throat felt tight.

She knew that.

Because for a long time, she hadn’t had any.

She forced herself to take a small bite of the lobster, but it barely registered.

Greg exhaled, running a hand over his jaw. “I want to integrate this into my work.”

Rosie blinked, trying to refocus. “Your philanthropy?”

He nodded. “Art therapy. Educational grants. Youth outreach. I’ve always supported children’s initiatives, but this made me realize how little focus there is on giving kids in the system an actual voice.” He leaned forward, his tone measured but deliberate. “I want you to be part of that. I could hire you as a contractor—or an employee. You’d be part of a team to build this out, both the actual art and then the vision of the program. It’s going to be a lot of work, but I think you’ll have the grit and resilience to push this forward for me.”

Rosie’s breath hitched.

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