Page 13 of Surfer's Paradise

A shift in the air.

Him.

She turned too fast.

And there, standing near the entrance, was a man that Rosie refused to see.

Isaac Rayleigh could stand there all night, dark jeans, low-slung baseball cap, that infuriating loose confidence dripping off him like he belonged anywhere he walked into—

But he didn’t belong here.

Not in this space.

Not in her world.

Not anymore.

So she ignored him. Utterly, completely, viciously ignored him.

Instead, she turned toward a middle-aged couple lingering in front of one of her largest pieces—a three-foot canvas streaked in deep, unsettling blues and burnt ochre, a storm of texture that collapsed into the silhouette of a small child standing alone in an empty doorway.

One of the earliest pieces in the Unclaimed series.

One of the hardest to paint.

One of the hardest to look at.

She forced a small, even smile and approached. “Hi, I’m Rosie Quentin. I’m the artist.”

The woman turned, eyes flicking to her, then back to the painting. “This… this is incredible. It feels so—”

“Heavy,” her husband finished, voice quiet, almost reverent.

Rosie nodded, folding her hands in front of her, grounding herself. “That’s the idea.”

The woman’s gaze lingered on the doorway in the painting. “It feels like something’s waiting there.”

Rosie inhaled slowly. “Not waiting. Hoping.”

The woman swallowed, something flickering behind her expression. She nodded. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.”

Rosie smiled, genuinely this time, said a quiet thanks as they moved on.

“Good,” Amy said at her side, appearing like a ghost, a glass of water in hand. “That’s how you talk about your work. Let them feel it. Don’t overexplain. They’ll buy from the gut.”

Rosie took the water gratefully. “You’re terrifyingly good at this.”

Amy smirked, all warmth and practical wisdom, her sleek brown bob barely shifting as she scanned the room like a general surveying her battlefield. “I just know how people work, sweetheart. You made them feel something. That’s half the job.”

Rosie exhaled, glancing around, drinking in the space.

The gallery was warm with soft golden light, the white walls allowing her pieces to breathe, to pull people in. The scent of champagne and linen napkins mixed with something faintly metallic from the paint, the weight of so many eyes on her work leaving her both exhilarated and exhausted.

She wanted to be present.

She wanted to fully take this in, let herself believe that she belonged here.

But Isaac was still standing near the entrance.

---