Page 175 of Surfer's Paradise

She lifted her head to look at him. Her blue eyes locked on his, sharp and warm all at once.

Silence settled between them—thick, charged. Not awkward. Not quite.

More like… too much.

His body was loose now, spent in the best fucking way, but his head?

His head was a fucking wreck.

Because something had cracked wide open in him just now—something terrifying and ancient. Something he’d kept under lock and key for years, maybe decades. And it had her name all over it.

Rosalie.

She curled into him, her hand flattening against his chest, and he thought she could probably feel it—everything pounding against his ribcage. Every word he couldn’t say.

I love you.

Nope.

Not yet. Not ready. Couldn’t do it.

But God, it was sitting there. Lodged in his throat. His bones. It was all over him, heavy and thick, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

He looked down at her in the dark, at the woman who had known him longer than anyone, who had survived more than most, who could bring him to his knees with a look or a kiss or a whispered promise.

And she was still here.

In his bed.

In his life.

In his arms.

Isaac closed his eyes. Let out a long, quiet breath. Pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Then whispered into the dark, “What the fuck is happening to me…”

He didn’t expect an answer.

So he held her tight until they both fell asleep again.

Chapter 34

Too early on Saturday morning, Rosie woke up to the shrill buzz of her phone vibrating somewhere on Isaac’s nightstand, slicing through the soft quiet of the room. She reached blindly, half-asleep, knocking over a bottle of water before finally grabbing it. Amy. Of course.

She rolled onto her back, squinting against the early light bleeding through Isaac’s curtains. “Hey,” she mumbled, voice raspy. “Everything okay?”

“Rosie!” Amy’s voice was borderline hysterical—in the good way. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you picked up. Listen. I just got off two calls with Cultured’s event team. The ‘25 Artists to Watch’ thing? Tonight? Downtown San Diego? One of the selected artists got pulled over some weird-ass controversy—don’t ask—and they’re bumping you into the lineup.”

Rosie sat up like she’d been electrocuted. “Wait. What?”

“They want you. Tonight. You’re officially number twenty-five. Red carpet, photographers, donors, critics, the whole damn scene.”

Rosie blinked, trying to process that while lying half-naked in Isaac Rayleigh’s bed. “You’re serious?”

“I’m dead serious. Cultured magazine, Rosie. This is a career rocket ship. You’re being profiled, celebrated, shown. It’s a thing.”

Beside her, Isaac stirred, groaning as he rolled toward her. His warm hand slid across her hip, grounding her. “What’s going on?” he mumbled.

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