Page 7 of Surfer's Paradise

She kept walking, tight, tense, determined.

So he picked up his pace, moving into her space just enough—not touching, not forcing, but close enough that she had no choice but to react.

And she did.

She stopped, spun—right into him.

Isaac caught himself before he actually made contact, one hand bracing against the wall behind her.

Close.

Closer than they’d been in a long time.

And suddenly, it was just her.

Rosie Quentin.

Glasses perched on her nose, big blue eyes sharp with irritation, mouth soft and pink but pressed into a stubborn line.

Her dark hair framed her face, slightly messy from the night air, from moving too fast and hoping she could get away from him.

The dress she wore was one of those floaty things, something soft and patterned, the kind of thing that swayed when she moved. The heels gave her a little more height, but she was still small compared to him.

Still him.

Still his ride-or-die.

Except not.

Not right now.

She shoved her glasses up her nose and leveled him with a look he didn’t like.

“Jesus, Isaac,” she muttered. “Can’t you take a hint?”

Isaac smirked, slow, easy. “I’ve had a few, Rosie. Hints don’t work.”

She exhaled hard, shaking her head. “You were drunk before you even found me.”

“Yeah,” he said, tilting his head slightly, letting his gaze drop just long enough to unsettle her. “And you ran before I even said hi.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

Gotcha.

Isaac shifted, his fingers dragging along the wall behind her, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world.

“What’s your deal?” he asked, voice low, soft in a way that always got under people’s skin. “You don’t return my texts. You’re out with some fucking hipster bitch. And now you’re looking at me like you wish I’d drop dead.”

Rosie lifted her chin. “I don’t—”

“—Yeah, you do,” he said, watching her carefully.

She clenched her jaw, eyes flashing.

He could see it, the tension in her shoulders, the way she wanted to say something but wouldn’t.

It was infuriating.

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