Page 51 of Surfer's Paradise

Glasses framing those bright, piercing blue eyes.

Porcelain skin.

Cherry lips.

Lashes dark, fluttering as she scanned the street—until she found him.

And smiled.

Not in some flirtatious, intentional way.

No, it was just Rosie.

The opposite of the tall, leggy, tanned French blonde he’d been getting into trouble with for the past six months.

And yet, somehow—

Somehow, he had turned right.

Isaac held his breath as she walked up and slid into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Rayleigh,” she said, kicking one long leg over the other.

Isaac flicked his gaze to her—blue eyes, cherry lips, glasses catching the light—then turned back to the road, exhaling slow.

Fucking hell.

What the fuck was he doing?

Chapter 10

The bastard had taken her somewhere gorgeous.

A perfect little beachside patio on Coronado, the kind of boutique restaurant that was tucked into a quiet stretch of sand, far enough from the tourist traps to feel exclusive, intimate.

Rosie hated it. Hated the warm ocean breeze, the scent of salt and fresh citrus, the golden-pink glow of the setting sun sinking into the water. Hated how fucking romantic it all was. Most of all, she hated that Isaac knew exactly what he was doing.

She glared at him over the rim of her glass. “You’re a sick fuck, Rayleigh.”

Isaac, the sick fuck in question, smirked as he lifted his own margarita. “Guilty.”

The salt on the rim of her glass burned against her lips as she took a sip. It was her second.

He had ordered another round without asking.

Of course he had.

It was blistering hot, the kind of San Diego summer heat that wrapped around her skin, made her body feel too warm, too aware of everything.

She reached down, starting to slip off her stilettos, but Isaac clocked it immediately.

His smirk deepened.

“You taking your shoes off?” he drawled, stretching one muscular arm over the back of his chair. Lazy. Relaxed. Infuriatingly sexy.

She shot him a look. “It’s hot.”

His brown eyes flickered. “Yeah, it is.”

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