Page 45 of Surfer's Paradise

And the fucking soap options. Clearly, he was used to having women sleep over. She ran her fingers over the bottles, all that fancy shit—eucalyptus, sandalwood, citrus, some expensive charcoal thing that smelled like an expensive man.

She sighed, grabbed the most neutral-smelling one, and stepped under the spray.

It was glorious.

Long, hot, endless water. She stood there too long, soaking in the heat, letting it loosen her muscles, her tension, her exhaustion.

Compared to where she’d come from, this was paradise.

Compared to where she’d come from, Isaac lived like a king.

She dried off, wrapped herself in a towel, and headed into the guest room, unpacking her duffel onto the neatly made bed.

It didn’t take long.

Ten articles of clothing.

That was it.

One pair of jeans, one pair of leggings, one pair of shorts.

Three t-shirts, one of which she was already wearing.

One hoodie.

One dress.

Two blouses.

She had exactly two pairs of shoes.

Sneakers. Heels.

And a handful of underwear and socks, folded neatly to the side.

Her toiletries were minimal.

One hairbrush. One toothbrush.

The no-name toothpaste.

And for makeup? Concealer to hide the tired circles.

Mascara.

Cherry red lip gloss—because even if she didn’t have much, she still wanted to look like she belonged.

She stared at the pile of her entire life, her throat tightening.

It wasn’t a lot.

But it was hers.

And it was enough.

She moved to the kitchen, fingers brushing over the smooth counters, the kind of place that looked like a life she’d never lived.

Then she opened the fridge.

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