5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
O f course he didn’t leave.
Of course he followed her.
Isaac wasn’t even sure why he tried pretending otherwise. Like he could just walk away from Rosalie Quentin, like he hadn’t spent his entire life looking out for her.
Like he didn’t know exactly where she was going, what she was doing, how alone she was.
So he walked. On foot. A few steps behind. Just watching.
Same as always.
Rosie never saw it the way he did.
The way people looked past her.
Or worse, right through her.
Even back then, in the halls of their shitty middle school in Signal Hill, he’d seen the way kids acted like she wasn’t there.
The awkward, skinny girl with glasses too big for her face, hiding her sad eyes, sweaters that swallowed her arms, hiding her scars. Shy. Quiet. Smart as hell.
But alone.
And people didn’t know.
They didn’t know why she had no friends.
Didn’t know why she barely spoke.
Didn’t know why she disappeared after school, why she never invited anyone over, why she never let anyone get too close.
Isaac knew.
Her mom was dead.
Her dad was an abusive motherfucker, in and out of prison.
She was a kid floating from foster house to house, slipping through cracks no one gave a shit about.
She wasn’t some princess locked in a tower, waiting to be saved.
She was a girl the world had already given up on.
And it cracked something in his stupid, selfish heart.
Because no one was looking out for Rosie Quentin.
No one except him.
And that?
That was maybe the only decent thing he’d ever done for anyone.
Which was why, right now, watching her sitting at a bus stop alone at 11 p.m., wearing a dress that made her look too soft, too breakable, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder like a goddamn target?
Yeah.
Not happening.
Isaac kept to the shadows, eyes locked on her.
Then he saw the guy.
A twitchy little fucker hunched over on the other side of the bench.
Thin. Unsteady. The kind of nervous energy that made Isaac’s pulse slow, his breathing sharpen, his blood go cold.
He saw the way the guy clocked Rosie.
Saw the way his head tilted toward her.
Saw the way her shoulders went tight.
Isaac’s jaw locked.
And then—
The guy slid closer.
Isaac’s vision went black.
He was moving before he even registered it, boots hitting pavement, closing the distance in seconds.
The tweaker didn’t notice until Isaac was right there.
Right in his fucking face.
“Hey.”
The guy flinched, blinking up at him.
Isaac smiled. Not a nice one.
“You lost, buddy?”
The guy’s mouth opened, closed. He looked at Rosie, then back at Isaac. “I was just—”
“You were just making her uncomfortable,” Isaac said flatly.
The guy twitched. “Look, man—”
Isaac stepped closer, voice low, quiet, sharp as a blade.
“Listen real fucking close, alright?” His eyes flicked to the empty street, then back to the guy. “You ever pull this shit again, with her or with any woman waiting alone at a bus stop? You won’t like how it ends.”
The guy’s face went pale.
“Got it?” Isaac pressed.
The guy nodded, too fast.
“Then get the fuck out of here.”
The guy bolted.
Isaac barely watched him go.
His focus was already back on Rosie.
She was still sitting, stiff, silent, her hands curled into fists on her lap.
And fuck.
Fuck.
She was furious.
He could see it. The tension in her jaw, the fire behind her blue eyes, the way she wasn’t looking at him because if she did, she might actually kill him.
Didn’t matter.
Isaac reached down, grabbed her duffel, swung it over his own shoulder like it was nothing.
Then he grabbed her hand.
Her small, tense, trembling hand.
And he pulled her behind him.
“Let’s go.”
She yanked at his grip. “Isaac—”
“I’m parked nearby,” he said, ignoring her protests, ignoring the way her skin was warm against his, ignoring the way she was still breathing too fast.
Ignoring all of it.
Because she was safe.
Because she was still his to protect.
Even if she hated him for it.
Isaac pulled her a few blocks up, threw Rosie’s duffel into the truck bed, then turned back to her, expecting her to climb in.
She didn’t.
She just stood there. Silent. Fuming. Not moving an inch.
Isaac blinked, confused. She always listened to him in situations like this. Even when she bitched and glared, she still got in the damn truck.
But this wasn’t like before.
This was new.
This was Rosie, furious in a way he’d never seen.
He exhaled, tipping his head back toward the sky before looking at her again. “Come on, I’ll drive you. Where are you going?”
Nothing.
She just shook her head.
Isaac’s stomach tightened.
“Rosie,” he tried again, lower, softer now. “Where are you staying while you’re in town?”
A beat.
Then—finally—“A hostel.”
Isaac’s jaw locked.
A hostel.
Nope. Didn’t like that.
He leaned back against the truck, crossing his arms. She was hiding something. He could always tell when she was hiding something.
“How long?” he asked, shifting gears, testing the waters.
She hesitated. “This week. Maybe next.”
“But you’re going back to L.A. after that?”
She nodded. “I can’t stay forever.”
Something about the way she said it made his skin prickle.
Not I don’t want to stay.
I can’t.
A weight settled in his chest. She meant she couldn’t afford it.
His eyes flicked over her face, searching. She wouldn’t meet his gaze.
She was so fucking proud.
“Why not stay with our friends?” he asked, keeping his tone casual. “You know people here.”
She shrugged, noncommittal. “Didn’t want to burden anyone.”
Liar.
It wasn’t about burdening. It was about asking.
Rosie never asked for help. Not when she was twelve years old and bouncing between foster homes. Not when she was sixteen and running away. Not when she worked a thousand jobs just to get through school.
The one person he’d ever met who actually needed help but never fucking asked for it.
Isaac clenched his jaw. “You could’ve said something.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Yeah?” she said. “Maybe that’s because that ‘help’ always comes with strings. And I can’t afford strings, Isaac.”
Silence.
Heavy. Knowing.
Isaac exhaled slowly.
“You’re staying with me.”
Rosie snorted. “Obviously not.”
Isaac stood beside the truck, hands braced on his hips, breathing in slow. The night was quiet now. Just the hum of the city in the distance, the occasional car passing, the streetlight buzzing overhead—throwing long shadows over the pavement, over her.
This fucking girl was always a pain in the ass.
And for the first time, he really looked at her.
Not like his best friend.
Not like the girl who used to sit beside him in class, rolling her eyes when he copied her math homework.
Not like the stubborn, impossible person he’d known his entire life.
No.
Like a man looking at… a woman. Fuck, she was thirty-one now. Same as him.
And fuck.
When the hell did she get so gorgeous?
The thought punched him in the gut.
Her dark hair, a little messy from the night, framed her face in soft waves. Her dark-rimmed glasses caught the glow of the streetlamp, blue eyes flickering underneath, sharp, irritated, full of fire.
Her mouth—pink, plush, still swollen from the way he’d kissed her last night.
Her dress, something tight and professional, hugging her lean frame in ways he’d never paid attention to before. The heels, making her just that much taller, just that much more dangerous to his sanity.
Isaac swallowed hard, dragging a hand over his mouth.
Fucking hell.
She was hot.
Hot?
Rosie?
What the fuck.
What the actual fuck.
And then—
Her eyes snapped to his. Sharp, challenging.
“What?” she bit out, arms crossing over her chest.
Isaac blinked, shook himself.
“Nothing,” he muttered, yanking the truck door open. “Get in.” Because if he kept looking at her like that, he was going to have a real fucking problem.
“No.”
“Rosie.” He stepped forward, voice edged now. “I don’t care how angry you are at me. I’m not letting you stay somewhere unsafe.”
“It’s not unsafe.”
“It’s a fucking hostel.”
“I’ve stayed in worse.”
He hated that.
He hated that so much.
“Not tonight, you’re not,” he said firmly.
She squared her shoulders. “You can’t make me.”
Isaac sighed.
Then he grabbed her waist and lifted her off the ground.
Rosie yelped, hands smacking his chest as he hauled her up into the truck’s passenger seat like she weighed nothing.
“Isaac—!”
He ignored her, buckling her in, fingers brushing against her stomach, the strap cinching tight between them.
Too close.
Too familiar.
Too much.
The same heat from last night punched through him, unexpected and unwanted.
Her breath hitched.
So did his.
Isaac ripped himself away, slamming the door shut before she could argue, glare, or worse—look at him like she actually trusted him again.
He strode around the truck, climbed in, and gripped the wheel too hard.
Staring straight ahead, he exhaled.
What the fuck am I doing?