Page 49 of Surfer's Paradise

Isaac hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.

He shouldn’t care.

He wasn’t checking in.

He just needed to make sure everything was handled at home before he committed to plans.

That was it.

He tapped her contact and hit call.

No answer.

A second later, a text from Rosie.Hey, still in meetings. What’s up?

He ran his tongue over his teeth, leaning back against the headrest. He wrote back.What’s the plan this evening?

A beat. Then—

I dunno when I’ll be back… I’m at the Grant.

Isaac exhaled through his nose.

Of course.

Billionaires and meetings and whatever the fuck she was getting herself into.

Cool, sounds like you’ll be late. I’ll catch you later.

He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, gripping the wheel, foot pressing down hard on the gas.

The truck burned out of the parking lot, tires gripping pavement as he peeled out of base.

It was already dark, the lights of San Diego glowing in the distance, pulling him in.

He grabbed his phone again at a red light, thumb flying over the keyboard.

Be there in a bit.

Sent.

To Elodie.

Because Rosie wasn’t home.

And Isaac wasn’t staying in tonight.

* * * * *

Traffic out of Coronado was a goddamn nightmare.

Isaac gripped the wheel, jaw tight as he sat in standstill gridlock on the bridge, the sun dipping low, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. The kind of sunset that belonged on a fucking postcard. He didn’t even appreciate it—too busy white-knuckling his patience.

His phone buzzed.

Elodie.

What’s your ETA?

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