Page 176 of Surfer's Paradise

Rosie put the phone on speaker. Her head was spinning.

Amy kept going, “They need you at the Museum of Contemporary Art in San Diego at four sharp. I already confirmed you’re available. You are available, right? Say yes.”

Rosie let out a breathless laugh, heart thudding. “Yeah. I mean. Yes. I—Amy, this is insane.”

“I know, I know, I’m freaking out. I get you a dress, or a stylist, or both—what do you want?”

Rosie ran a hand over her face. “God. I don’t know. Just—nothing too fancy. But like… fancy enough?”

“Already on it,” Amy said. “And I can be your date, if you want?”

Rosie’s eyes flicked to Isaac, now sitting up, bare chest inked and mussed with sleep, watching her like she was the only thing worth waking up for.

She smiled. “I think I’ve got a date.”

Amy paused. “Wait. Not that dude, right?”

Isaac leaned forward toward the phone. “Morning, Amy.”

Rosie pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

Amy, after a beat: “K! Uh, come over soon and we will get ready!”

The line clicked dead, and Rosie let the phone slip from her fingers onto the sheets.

Her heart was pounding. Her skin felt too tight. Her stomach was a full-blown knot.

Isaac’s palm slid over her lower back beneath the blanket, warm and grounding. “So… you’re famous now.”

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” she muttered, burrowing into his chest, hiding from the weight of it all.

He kissed the crown of her head. “You’re gonna crush it, Coco.”

She closed her eyes, breathing in the steady thump of his heart. His voice was calm. Steady. Too steady.

She should’ve been ecstatic. Cultured Magazine. A red carpet. San Diego’s downtown elite. One of twenty-five. Her name on a damn list that mattered. She should’ve been floating.

But something inside her had knotted around itself and refused to untangle.

Because Isaac—Isaac was acting like he was waiting for her to shatter. Like he couldn’t look away without something snapping loose. His arm around her was firm, protective, almost possessive. His body was wrapped around hers like armor. And even now, in the warm hush of morning, there was a tension in him. Something haunted.

Rosie lifted her head slightly, glancing at his hand—scabbed knuckles, bruised flesh.

Yesterday.

She didn’t know what happened in that alley.

She didn’t know why he’d come back cold and tight-lipped, blood on his hands and pain in his eyes. She didn’t know what he was holding inside.

But she could feel it. All of it. Like it was in her own bones.

Rosie rolled toward him and brushed her lips over his, trying to kiss away whatever was clawing at him from the inside out. He met her kiss, deep and immediate, his mouth greedy like he’d needed it all night. His fingers slid to the back of her neck, his lips parting hers, tongue sweeping hers in a kiss that was more relief than hunger. Like he was grounding himself in her.

Her hands slid over his chest, up to his jaw, coaxing. He kissed her like he was afraid to let go. Like she was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

She knew this wasn’t just about yesterday. Something deeper was unraveling in him.

But he wasn’t ready to talk. She could feel that too.

---