Page 52 of Surfer's Paradise

Her face burned. “Not what I meant.”

Isaac leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “What’d you mean, then?”

Rosie rolled her eyes, kicking one heel off and sighing in relief. “I mean it’s a thousand degrees, and I’ve been wearing these since before my meetings.”

Isaac hummed, watching her with that unreadable expression, the one that made her feel like he was seeing too much. “Pretty sure the rule is, if you take the shoes off, you gotta stay barefoot the rest of the night.”

She gave him a dry look. “That’s not a rule.”

He grinned. “It is now.”

Rosie let out a soft groan, tilting her head back, reaching up to gather her hair into a ponytail. The evening heat was unbearable, thick and warm, her skin prickling under the weight of it.

Or maybe that was just Isaac watching her. She felt his gaze the moment she lifted her arms, the way his eyes tracked the movement, slow and deliberate. And ugh, she hated it.

Hated how her pulse quickened, how her skin felt too sensitive in the heat.

Hated that Isaac looked so goddamn good. Sun-kissed skin, black t-shirt stretched across broad, muscular shoulders, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves, the strong curve of his jaw flexing when he took another sip of his drink.

And she wasn’t the only one noticing.

The waitress—a pretty blonde in a short black skirt—had been hovering, smiling too much, asking just a little too sweetly if they needed anything else.

Because why wouldn’t she?

Isaac was gorgeous, and available, and dangerous in that way that made women forget their own names.

And Rosie—Rosie hated that she cared.

But mostly, she hated how much she actually loved all of it. The restaurant. The drinks. The food. Him sitting there, his undivided attention on her.

And then—

Isaac, the sickest fuck of them all, waved the waitress over and ordered tequila shots.

Rosie groaned. “Isaac.”

He shot her a lazy grin. “Rosalie.”

“This is going to be so expensive,” she muttered.

Isaac shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a charity case.”

He shot her a look. “Obviously.”

Of course he would pay. He always did. And she hated that too. Hated it so much that when the shots arrived, she downed hers without a fight.

And hated the way Isaac watched her do it, smirking the whole damn time.

* * * * *

The sand was cool beneath Rosie’s bare feet, the night air thick with salt and the slow, steady crash of waves. She walked beside Isaac, her heels dangling from her fingers, her body loose with tequila, but her mind still sharp, still too aware of him.

They were heading back to his place, just a short walk down the beach. Too short.

She wished the distance were longer.

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