Page 14 of Surfer's Paradise

Watching.

She felt him, even when she wouldn’t look.

His presence buzzed in the back of her mind, too loud, too familiar, too much.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t push in.

Didn’t force his way to her.

Not yet.

He was waiting.

And she hated him for it.

“Okay,” Amy clapped her hands together, snapping Rosie back to the present. “One of the gallery’s best buyers is here—Greg Taylor, owns a private collection, also sits on the San Diego Museum of Art board. He’s interested in your work.”

Rosie nodded too fast, too stiffly. “Great.”

Amy gave her a sharp look. “You good?”

Rosie’s jaw locked.

She could still feel Isaac, burning a hole through her from across the room.

So she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “Never better.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked straight into the next conversation, leaving every single thing about last night buried under layers of fresh paint and polite smiles.

Isaac could watch all he wanted.

He wouldn’t exist to her tonight.

Before she knew it, Rosie had lost track of everything.

The time. The crowd. Isaac.

She’d been too deep in conversation, her nerves stretched thin and humming from the weight of the night. Too many people, too many voices, too many eyes on her work.

And Greg Taylor was still in front of her, still watching her with an intensity she wasn’t used to.

“Well, I have to say,” Greg said, swirling the last bit of his wine in his glass, “I haven’t felt this way about a collection in years.”

Rosie’s cheeks were warm. From the wine, from the praise, from the way Greg had been engaged—completely and utterly absorbed in her words, her work, her past.

It had started simple. A few polite questions. An interest in Unclaimed.

But then Amy had come by, offering wine to visitors, and Greg had taken two glasses, handing one to Rosie with an easy smile.

“Let’s toast to your success,” he’d said, expectant.

She hadn’t been able to turn it down.

And now?

Now, she’d had just enough wine to loosen her tongue.

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