Page 95 of Surfer's Paradise

Her breath was ragged, face flushed, hands fisted in his shirt again.

He smirked.

“You do realize,” he muttered, voice low, “you’re running straight to my house, right?”

Rosie froze.

Eyes wide.

Then, after a long, tense second—

“Fuck.”

Isaac laughed, gripping her tighter.

“Yeah, babe,” he whispered, dragging his lips down her jaw. “Fuck.”

The ocean wind whipped between them, the salty air tangling in her hair, biting at his skin, but Isaac barely felt it.

His blood was too hot.

His head was too fucked up.

Rosie was still struggling in his grip, still trying to yank herself free, still pissed off and running in the goddamn wrong direction.

Again.

“Rosie, fucking stop,” he snapped, tightening his hold on her wrist.

“Let me go!” she growled, spinning to face him, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling fast.

“Not until you explain why you’re so goddamn mad at me!”

She let out a short, bitter laugh, eyes blazing.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious,” Isaac shot back. “You’ve been pissed at me for a year, Rosie. A fucking year. And then you show up back in my life and we’re—”

He stopped himself, running a rough hand through his hair, exhaling hard.

Rosie scoffed.

“And we’re what?” she pushed. “Fucking? That’s what we are now? Some easy, convenient, throwaway fuck to keep you entertained between deployments?”

Isaac’s stomach dropped.

“Jesus Christ, that’s not—”

“Then what, Isaac?” she shouted, throwing her arms up. “Because I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing! And you sure as hell don’t either!”

Isaac clenched his jaw, his hands tightening at his sides.

“That’s bullshit,” he growled.

“Oh, is it?” she snapped, stumbling slightly in the sand, her balance off from the wine and rage and whatever the fuck else was burning inside her.

“Rosie—”

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