Page 82 of Surfer's Paradise

Rosie sighed. “Okay—this weekend. First time I’ve seen him in a year. And guess what, Amy? He’s the same Isaac. Horny, reckless, completely unbothered. And suddenly I’m back in his life and he’s like ‘oh look, an easy option.’”

Amy’s eyes flashed. “Fuck that guy.”

Rosie’s hand curled into a fist on the table, her nails biting into her palm as the words spilled out of her, hot, bitter, sharp-edged with heartbreak.

“Right?” she muttered, voice raw, almost shaking with it. “I know him so well. And he’s just addicted to sex. And I was there. I could be any girl.” Her throat tightened, fury and humiliation clashing in her chest, making it hard to breathe. “I was just fucking convenient.”

Amy exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her glare cutting. “And you don’t actually believe he gives a shit?”

Rosie laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh—it was something empty, broken, jagged.

“Isaac Rayleigh? Care? About me?” She let out a dry, humorless scoff, her eyes burning, stomach twisting.

“Amy,” she said, voice lower, rougher, like it hurt to say it. “He literally said it. A year ago. He would never date me. He would never touch me.”

Her fingers clenched around the stem of her glass.

“His exact words,” she said, voice quieter now, but no less painful.

Like I’m fucking gross.

Amy’s face darkened, nostrils flaring, her grip tightening around her own drink.

“I saw him at the gallery on Sunday,” she muttered. “I could smell the player vibes coming off him.”

Rosie exhaled hard, leaning back in the booth, shaking her head.

“And then I caved,” she whispered, voice wavering with anger, with regret, with something dangerously close to grief.

She pressed her fingers against her temple, eyes squeezed shut.

“I stayed at his place. I let him make me feel too damn good. Goddamn, he’s a top-notch lover.” Her voice cracked with the confession.

Amy lifted a brow, watching her closely. “And his dick—?”

Rosie let out a rough, helpless little laugh, shaking her head as she bit her lip.

“Addictive,” she muttered, voice full of self-loathing. “Fucking addictive.”

She tipped back the last of her wine, rolling the glass between her fingers, jaw clenched.

“I’m an idiot,” she whispered.

And then, of course.

Of fucking course.

She set the glass down just as her phone buzzed.

Her entire body went rigid.

Her gaze dropped.

Isaac.

A fresh wave of nausea slammed through her.

Amy leaned in, expression unreadable as she eyed the screen.

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