Page 139 of Surfer's Paradise

“I miss you too.”

He clicked off the call, leaned his elbow out the window, and stared at the westward horizon as the traffic inched forward. Rosie was out there, being a star, and he hadn’t even known. Not until his mom told him.

Uninvited? Maybe.

But showing up? Yeah. He was doing that.

She could hate him later.

He flipped on his signal. Took the exit toward Malibu.

Time to crash a gala.

* * * * *

Isaac’s knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as he navigated the Pacific Coast Highway, the sun dipping low over the ocean, casting a golden hue across the water. The rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore was a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him. The drive from San Diego to Malibu had been a blend of scenic beauty and relentless traffic, each mile giving him ample time to wrestle with his thoughts.

As he approached the venue—a sprawling, modern estate perched atop a cliff—he couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. The kind of place that screamed exclusivity, with its minimalist architecture and valet attendants dressed in crisp uniforms. He pulled his truck into the makeshift parking area, gravel crunching under the tires, and killed the engine.

Glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror, Isaac removed his worn ball cap, attempting to tame his unruly black hair. The tattoos on his neck and peeking from under his black t-shirt sleeves and his rugged demeanor were a stark contrast to the likely attendees of this soirée. But maybe, just maybe, he could pass as one of the avant-garde artists—those who thrived on defying convention.

He chuckled to himself, the idea both amusing and nerve-wracking. “Time to channel my inner punk,” he said, stepping out of the truck and into the cool evening air.

Approaching the entrance, he observed guests adorned in designer attire, their laughter melodic yet tinged with pretension. Security personnel flanked the doorway, their expressions a blend of boredom and scrutiny. Isaac straightened his posture, adopting an air of entitlement he’d seen countless times but rarely embodied. Confidence is key.

With a casual nod to the doorman and a mumbled mention of being “with the exhibit,” he slipped past the velvet ropes and into the lion’s den.

Inside, the ambiance was both intoxicating and overwhelming. Walls adorned with contemporary art pieces, the soft hum of classical music intertwined with the clinking of champagne flutes. Isaac’s eyes scanned the room, searching for Rosie amidst the sea of patrons.

Spotting her near one of her installations, Isaac slowed to a full stop.

And holy fuck.

Rosie wasn’t just in her element—she was transcendent.

She stood in a pool of soft gallery light, one hand curled loosely around a wine glass, the other gesturing as she spoke to a group of sharp-dressed art-world types. Her voice carried just enough to be melodic, confident, thoughtful. Professional. Elegant. Untouchable.

But it wasn’t the voice that stopped him.

It was the dress.

Silky. Deep blue. No back.

Minimalist, but clinging to her like it was custom-made. The satin shimmered when she moved, catching the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the line of her shoulder blades. Her dark hair was down in soft, clean waves, and without her usual glasses, her bright blue eyes looked sharper, more vivid—like they could see right through him.

Her lips were painted red.

Fuck.

She looked like she’d stepped off the page of a 1950s pin-up spread—gorgeous, self-possessed, quietly lethal.

And Isaac’s body reacted before his brain caught up.

Throbbing.

Just like that.

Instant. Undeniable. Fucking inconvenient.

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