Page 77 of Surfer's Paradise

Greg leaned forward, forearms bracing against the desk, completely focused on her.

“I’m thinking through what that means,” he admitted. “Maybe I commission you. Maybe I pay you to come in and teach art classes. Maybe it’s both.”

Rosie’s mind whirled.

This was… real.

This wasn’t just someone buying a painting for their collection.

This was **someone seeing her talent—**really seeing it—and wanting to support it.

Wanting to help her build something bigger.

Greg studied her, giving her a moment to absorb it.

Then, calmly—“I want to know your thoughts. What do you want?”

Rosie let out a slow exhale, glancing down at her hands, suddenly aware of how badly she wanted this.

Independence. Success. The ability to finally stand on her own.

Greg was offering her a door.

And for the first time in a long time, she was starting to believe she might be able to walk through it.

She glanced back up, meeting his gaze.

He was looking at her carefully.

Not just as a businessman assessing an investment.

As a man who found her attractive.

It was subtle, barely there, but she caught it—the way his gaze flickered over her face, her frame, the way his fingers tapped idly against the desk like he was keeping himself in check.

And she wasn’t blind.

Greg Taylor was an undeniably attractive older gentleman.

Powerful. Intelligent. Controlled in a way that suggested he didn’t let things slip easily.

And yet, he was here. Offering her something real.

Something she didn’t have to beg for.

Something that wasn’t tied to pity or charity or obligation.

For the first time all day, she felt steady.

And when Greg’s assistant reappeared, stepping in with a polite nod, she barely flinched.

“Mr. Taylor, your next meeting is in ten.”

Greg glanced at the time, exhaled sharply, then turned back to Rosie.

“Alright,” he said, giving her one last, considering look. “Tell me. What do you want?”

Rosie sat there, Greg Taylor’s sharp grey eyes locked onto hers, waiting.

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