Page 17 of Surfer's Paradise

Her spine went rigid.

She inhaled sharply, forcing her nails into her palms to keep from doing something impulsive.

Like punching him.

Or grabbing him by the stupid collar of his stupid t-shirt and pulling him into the nearest dark corner.

Instead, she narrowed her eyes. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

Isaac tilted his head, that damn smirk playing at his mouth. “Kissing you.”

Her stomach flipped.

She forced her expression to stay blank. “Yes.”

“Punching soy boy.”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “Yes, and he has a name.”

Isaac grinned. “No way it’s a good one.”

She exhaled sharply, glaring.

His smirk faded slightly. He ran one hand over a new tattoo covering the side of his neck—one she hadn’t seen before. Artistic poppies and a skull.

His voice dropped. “Hurting you?”

Rosie’s breath hitched.

And there it was.

The thing he should have said months ago.

The thing he should have thought about before he shattered everything between them.

She swallowed hard, voice even. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Isaac’s jaw ticked.

“Tell me,” he said.

“No.”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Coco.”

Her blood boiled.

Coco.

It was ancient history, that name. Kindergarten, elementary, Isaac handing her a melted popsicle and asking if she wanted to be his girlfriend, which lasted all of one day until she broke it off and ran home crying.

It was inside jokes and childhood secrets and scraped knees on sidewalks. They grew up one street apart, walking to school together, spending summers roasting in the sun, and—when they got older and she started bouncing around foster homes—he was the only person that still felt like home.

And now?

Now, it was a weapon.

“I am not your Coco,” she said, her voice cutting sharp and final.

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