Page 142 of Surfer's Paradise

Couldn’t ignore the electric crackle of her heartbeat shifting course.

She watched as he leaned closer to the 50-something woman at the bar—a woman who laughed, eyes lingering on him.

Rosie’s stomach twisted.

And then another person approached him. Then another. Until there was a small crowd around him. He was gesturing animatedly, holding court, saying something Rosie couldn’t hear but that made everyone laugh. Big, open-mouthed laughs.

A few people glanced her way. One even pointed discreetly.

Oh God.

Rosie clenched her jaw.

No. Fucking. Way.

The heat crawled up her spine like wildfire. He was drunk. She could tell. His stance was too loose, his movements too big. He was buzzed and babbling and pulling focus in a room that was supposed to be hers.

And it wasn’t even that he was there. It was that he didn’t tell her. Like just to throw her off. Just to mess her up. And already, he was turning her night into something else.

Classic.

Her fingers tightened on the wine glass.

She had two options.

Let it go.

Or stop him before he did more damage.

She took a slow breath. Then another.

And then she started walking. In the opposite direction.

The hush of the ocean was a balm—brief, fleeting, but a balm nonetheless.

Rosie slipped through the side door of the gallery, the weight of too many conversations and one very familiar, very uninvited presence pressing hard against her ribs. She exhaled, stepping into the cliffside garden, heels tapping across warm stone.

It was beautiful out here. Stupidly, obscenely beautiful.

Twinkle lights strung between sleek patio beams. Well-manicured hedges. Sculptures that probably cost more than her entire art school tuition. The sea stretched out beyond the bluff in a painter’s dream of dusk and ocean spray.

She blended easily into the scene—wine glass still in hand, expression relaxed even though her chest was knotted.

Why did he come?

Why now?

Why like this?

She sipped her wine, lips parted as if to say something to no one. The truth twisted bitter in her throat.

Isaac Rayleigh always showed up when he wanted. And tonight, just when her life was finally on track, just when this whole dream was beginning to crystallize, he’d walked in—wild hair, sharp smile, drunk and magnetic. Cracking her composure in half.

Her fingers curled tighter around the stem of her glass.

“You looked like you could use a little break,” came a warm, smooth voice behind her.

She turned.

---