Page 4 of Surfer's Paradise

Her show tomorrow—the one she’d spent months working on—was called Unclaimed. A series of paintings illustrating the experience of being a former foster child.

It was everything to her.

It was not for Vlado’s pretentious philosophical dissection.

She forced a small, polite smile. “I just paint what I feel.”

Vlado sighed, like she’d disappointed him. “Of course. You’re pure in that way.”

Pure.

What the fuck did that even mean?

Rosie wanted to sink into the floor and evaporate. She’d tried, she really had. But her drink was empty, the room was too loud, and she felt so out of place, so awkward, so small in a crowd full of people who seemed to navigate these spaces effortlessly.

She wasn’t built for this.

She never had been.

And just as she was calculating her exit strategy, she heard a voice behind her.

A voice she knew.

Too well.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Rosie’s stomach dropped.

She turned, her pulse skipping, and there he was.

Isaac Rayleigh.

Black baseball hat pulled low, tattoos peeking from under his sleeves, brown eyes bright with whiskey and something else—something sharp and reckless.

And behind him?

Shay and Chris, both looking way too amused at the scene unfolding.

Rosie’s heart hammered in her chest.

Because she hadn’t seen him in months. Because she wasn’t ready to see him.

And because God help her—he still looked exactly like everything she ever wanted.

And nothing she could ever have.

He had the same careless swagger, the same cocky glint in his brown eyes. The kind of presence that didn’t just demand attention—it stole it. Even here, in a dimly lit speakeasy filled with carefully curated hipsters who prided themselves on being unimpressed by everything, Isaac stood out.

She exhaled slowly, inching back, trying to make herself smaller.

But it was already too late.

He saw her.

And worse? Vlado saw him seeing her.

Isaac’s steps slowed as he approached, his eyes never leaving her.

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