Page 180 of Surfer's Paradise

Talked close.

Too close.

Isaac’s grip tightened around his glass.

That was the moment something shifted in his chest. That look on Greg’s face—warm, familiar, pleased. Like he’d discovered something. Like he owned something. Isaac’s vision sharpened, narrowed.

He saw Rosie tilt her head up to listen.

Saw Greg lean in—say something only she could hear.

Isaac couldn’t hear the words.

Didn’t need to.

It looked too fucking familiar. Too much like a memory he couldn’t unsee.

Predators smiled like that. When they thought no one was looking.

Isaac’s gut turned to concrete. The sound in the room faded. His pulse started to climb.

He wasn’t jealous.

He was ready to burn this place to the goddamn ground.

She was his now.

And nobody, not even a billionaire in a tailored fucking tux, got to forget that.

* * * * *

Isaac leaned against a cold steel pillar near the back of the reception hall, one boot crossed over the other, whiskey glass sweating in his hand. He hadn’t moved in half an hour. Just stood there, jaw clenched, tracking Rosie through the crowd like a sniper with a scope.

There were only two goddamn thoughts going through his head. First of all, she looked fucking radiant. All curves and confidence in that black slip of a dress, laughing a little too politely, that gallery smile on her face that he could tell was cracking under pressure.

And secondly, standing too close, right fucking beside her—Greg Taylor. Motherfucker.

Isaac’s grip tightened on the glass. Hate spread like a poison inside him. He watched as Greg put a hand on the small of Rosie’s back, leaned in close to whisper something. Rosie gave a stiff laugh, eyes darting sideways. Isaac saw the way her posture changed, shoulders inching up, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

Not liking this.

Not one goddamn bit.

Greg wasn’t touching her inappropriately—not technically. He wasn’t saying anything Isaac could hear. But it was the vibe. The body language. The subtle lean-ins, the guiding hand on her waist, the way he kept stepping in her space, talking close, leading her from one wealthy fuck to another like he owned her.

Like she was his newest acquisition.

Isaac’s stomach churned.

He’d seen this before. Not here, not like this—but it was the same fucking thing.

Twelve years old. Standing on Rosie’s porch after school. Seeing fucking Troy answer the door shirtless, beer in hand, looking like he’d just rolled off the floor. That smile he gave when he called her princess. The way his hand lingered on her shoulder when he told Isaac to get going now, she had chores.

Isaac hadn’t known what it meant back then.

Now he did.

Now he fucking knew.

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