Page 3 of Surfer's Paradise

Shay’s eyes flicked to Chris, then back to Isaac.

Chris made a face—half wince, half this is awkward as hell. “Yeah, man. I don’t think she’s feeling you right now.”

Isaac blinked. The hell?

Shay sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he was debating whether or not to say more. “Look, dude, I don’t know what happened, but… you know, Rosie. She doesn’t exactly hold grudges, but she’s definitely been—”

“Different,” Chris supplied. “I dunno, distant. From you, at least.”

Isaac laughed, like it was a joke, like it didn’t even register, but there was a weird pull in his chest that felt an awful lot like getting kicked.

“What?” he said again, half-smiling. “I’ve been gone for months. Nothing happened.”

Shay shrugged. “You tell us.”

Isaac just shook his head, rolling his glass between his fingers, but the buzz in his veins wasn’t so smooth anymore.

Rosie was mad at him? Since when? And why the hell didn’t he know about it? Now, she was out, with some other guy, and she didn’t even want him around?

Isaac’s jaw tensed, but he masked it with another swallow of whiskey. Didn’t matter.

“Whatever,” he said, standing up and slapping some cash on the bar. “Let’s go see what’s up.”

Shay exchanged a look with Chris but didn’t argue.

Chapter 2

Rosalie Quentin was desperately trying to have a good time.

She’d done the whole thing—gotten dressed up, put on eyeliner, worn the good heels that made her feel slightly more confident, and let herself get dragged out to this “underground” art speakeasy by her friends. She was making an effort to be social, to shake off the weight of the past year, to do what everyone kept telling her she needed to do—get out there.

But God, was she regretting it.

The place was suffocating.

It was one of those pretentious, candlelit loft bars where no one actually enjoyed themselves because they were too busy curating their experience, making sure their conversations were the right amount of obscure and clever. Everything smelled like sandalwood and irony.

And Vlado was talking.

Again.

“…and really, it’s the commodification of art that makes it suffer, you know?” Vlado was saying, swirling his organic, locally brewed IPA like it was fine wine. “Like, the moment you start considering how a piece will sell, you’re betraying the artistic spirit. You stop creating for expression and start catering to consumption. It’s tragic, really.”

Rosie blinked, then took a slow sip of her drink to stop herself from saying anything too honest.

Vlado had been hovering all night—one of those white, effortlessly cool guys with a trust fund, a vintage bicycle, and a personality built on disdain. He wore short jeans like a European dandy and had probably never done anything useful in his life.

He was very interested in her. Or, rather, very interested in her as an artist.

Which, fine. He was kind of attractive, in a pretentious way. And she was trying—really, really trying—to move on from the whole Isaac Rayleigh problem.

So she was humoring it.

Barely.

“You know what I mean, Rosie?” Vlado asked, leaning in with what he probably thought was devastating intensity. “As someone whose work is so deeply personal, do you ever feel that pull? That temptation to dilute the rawness of your vision to make it… I don’t know. More palatable?”

Rosie resisted the urge to dig her nails into her palm.

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