Page 159 of Surfer's Paradise

Rosie was curled into him, her skin still hot and damp, their legs tangled under the twisted sheets. The room smelled like sweatand sex, and the quiet was heavy—full of adrenaline fading, lungs still catching up. Isaac could feel her heartbeat against his chest, her breath slowing against his throat.

He ran a hand down her spine, slick and smooth. She shivered. He pulled her in tighter, kissed her hairline.

“Let’s stay in bed,” he said quietly. “All day. Fuck the world.”

She shifted. Not away, just enough to rest her chin on his chest. “I can’t.”

Isaac opened one eye. “Wrong answer.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “I have to go. This afternoon—I’m doing a preview event in East L.A. for the mentorship pilot. The one at the youth center Greg’s foundation funds.”

He was quiet for half a beat.

Then: “Cool. I’ll drive.”

Rosie blinked up at him. “What? No. You’re not coming.”

Isaac stared down at her, unrushed. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not—” She pulled away a little more, brow furrowed. “It’s not something you need to come to. It’s my thing.”

He shrugged, calm, like he wasn’t about to drop a bomb. “You’re my girlfriend now. I go where you go.”

That stopped her.

She sat up a little, sheet dropping from her chest. “What?”

He sat up, too, bare and unbothered, propped on one arm. “I said you’re my girlfriend.”

“Since when?”

“Since just now.” He gave her a smirk. “This is happening.”

She stared at him, disbelief radiating from every inch. He could see the battle behind her eyes—how badly she wanted to believe him and how deeply she didn’t.

“Isaac,” she said softly, eyes sharp now. “You just have to say something like that and it’s real?”

He leaned in, kissed her shoulder. “You want this. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Her voice caught. “I do.”

“Then you just have to trust me.”

She looked down. “But you’ll never love me back, right?”

That one stung more than he wanted to admit.

He exhaled. “Every girlfriend I’ve ever had had a three-month shelf life. Like clockwork. The minute they said ‘I love you,’ I was already out the door. Because I couldn’t say it back. I couldn’t even lie about it.”

She traced one of the tattoos on his ribs—right near where it still ached from the dive. Her fingertip was soft and slow, but her silence was heavier than anything she was doing with her hands.

“But I’ve known you for twenty-five years,” he added. “It’s not the same. You’re not the same.”

“I need to know,” she said after a moment. “That you’re capable of being in love with me. That this isn’t some sick thing where you’re using me for sex because I’m convenient. I’ve had enough of that.”

He met her eyes. “That’s a whole lot of childhood trauma, Coco.”

She flinched slightly at the name, but didn’t tell him to stop. Her fingers were still on his skin, drawing patterns into the ink.

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