Page 144 of Surfer's Paradise

Not tonight.

She straightened her shoulders, turned back to Greg with a soft smile, and asked the next question about the program. The only answer she was interested in.

* * * * *

Rosie stepped lightly along the flagstone path, the chatter of the gala fading behind her as she followed the subtle glow of pathway lighting toward the main house. She needed five minutes. Just five to collect herself, reapply her lipstick, maybe cry silently in the guest bathroom, and pull herself together.

The ocean air kissed her shoulders. Her heels clicked a steady rhythm. The moonlight made her dress glow a deeper sapphire. Everything felt too much and not enough at once.

Then she saw him. Leaning casually against the garden wall, like he’d been waiting for her.

Isaac.

Her breath caught, and for one blessed, idiotic second, she thought he might just smile and wave and let her pass.

But no.

He pushed off the wall with that practiced nonchalance that was supposed to look like ease but was always hiding a storm.

“Hey,” he said.

Rosie blinked. Stared. Her heart was already pounding.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said, voice low and sharp.

Isaac’s brow knit. “What?”

“You’re—you’re here. Right there. Watching me all night like some sniper in the hedges.”

“I wasn’t—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t watching you.”

She took a step closer, fury rising like fire in her throat. “You showed up uninvited, made up some crap about being an artist, hijacked the conversation—again—and now you’re stalking me along the goddamn garden path?”

“I didn’t hijack anything,” he muttered, defensive. “I was trying to support you.”

“Oh my God,” she breathed, laughing bitterly. “That’s your idea of support? Pretending you’re part of my art collective?”

“I didn’t say it like that,” he said quickly. “I needed a cover story.”

“You implied it. To donors. To actual collectors. And now I’ve got people asking me about my collaborator.You.”

“They were interested—”

“They were interested in me, Isaac!” she snapped. “Not you. Not the SEALs or your bullshit stories or your whiskey swagger.”

He went quiet at that. His jaw tensed.

“And Greg?” he asked suddenly, voice low and biting. “That guy’s just interested in your art, huh?”

Rosie’s stomach turned. “Don’t.”

He stepped closer. The edge in his voice sharpened. “You let him touch you like that? Arm-in-arm? The way he looked at you—”

“You don’t get to talk about how anyone looks at me,” she said, stepping right back into his space, “when you’ve spent the last decade parading every blonde with legs around your place and treating me like a fucking second cousin you sometimes remember exists.”

His eyes burned. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “It was. And now you think you can just show up here, put on a smile, have a couple drinks, and what? Be part of this?”

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