Page 30 of Surfer's Paradise

She didn’t want to remember how easy this used to be. How many nights they’d spent just like this—him driving, her beside him, a bag of In-N-Out between them, talking about nothing and everything. How, once upon a time, there had been no space between them, no tension, no sharp edges waiting to draw blood.

She didn’t want to remember, but she did.

The bridge to Coronado stretched before them, the dark ocean glimmering beneath the glow of the city behind them. She hadn’t been to his place before. He’d lived here for two years, and somehow, she’d never stepped foot inside. Funny, considering how many places she used to follow him into without hesitation. At some point, she’d stopped visiting him alone.

It had been too painful.

Too many forgotten traces of other women—a pair of earrings on his nightstand, the lingering scent of unfamiliar perfume, the casual way he never seemed to care about any of it. Seeing it had made her feel stupid, like she was torturing herself for no reason. So she’d pulled away, made excuses, stopped showing up. And now, here she was, about to walk into his house for the first time.

The truck rumbled into his driveway, rolling to a slow stop in front of a house that was surprisingly beautiful. It wasn’t the careless bachelor pad she’d expected, but a small, modern beach house tucked neatly into the quiet town center. It was the kind of place that suited him more than she wanted to admit—clean lines, a laid-back elegance, sitting right on the sand like it had always belonged to him.

She glanced at him as he cut the engine, stretching his arms over his head with a low groan before slumping back against the seat.

“Didn’t know you bought a place,” she said.

Isaac smirked, turning his head toward her. “Yeah? Guess you stopped visiting before I could show you.”

She didn’t answer, just unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed the door open. He did the same, moving around to the back to grab her duffel before she could protest.

She followed him up the steps, the scent of salt stronger here, the crash of waves just beyond the house. Inside, the space was warm, lived-in but undeniably him. Clean, simple, a little rugged around the edges. There was a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter, a few stray boots near the door, and his dive gear neatly packed in one corner of the room.

He tossed her duffel onto the couch before turning to face her, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable.

“So,” he said, voice casual but laced with something she couldn’t quite name. “What’s the deal with you and soy boy?”

Rosie sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “Nothing. He’s interested. I’m not.”

Isaac watched her for a beat, the flicker of something sharp in his gaze. “Then why keep him around?”

She shrugged, kicking off her heels. “It’s not like I have lineups.”

Isaac’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t amusement. It was something else. Something darker.

And then he took a step toward her.

Not too close. But close enough that she felt the weight of his presence, the shift in the air, the way his eyes pinned her in place like he was seeing her differently.

“You’re gorgeous, Quentin,” he said, voice quieter now, lower.

Her breath caught.

Isaac tilted his head slightly, studying her.

“Talented. Smart as hell. Why don’t you know that?”

The words landed too deep, pressing against something she didn’t know how to acknowledge. She swallowed hard, unable to look away.

The silence stretched, charged and unnerving.

Then, just as fast, he broke it.

“Guest room’s down the hall,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Clean towels in the closet. Go get some sleep.”

She nodded slowly, pulse still racing.

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

But as she turned, heading toward the bathroom, she knew nothing about tonight was going to let her rest.

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