8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
R osie woke slow and heavy, the weight of sleep clinging to her like she was sinking in something deep, something impossible to claw her way out of.
For a moment, she just breathed.
The sheets were warm, the room quiet except for the distant murmur of waves outside the window. It was too easy to stay here, wrapped up in the ghost of last night, in the scent of him still lingering on the pillow, on her skin.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Holy fuck.
She was in Isaac’s bed.
The realization hit hard, a dull ache blooming in her chest.
What the hell was she thinking?
Rosie groaned, rolling onto her stomach, pressing her face into his pillow like it could somehow drown out the feeling of him still on her body. His arms around her, the warmth of his breath against her hair, the quiet, unbearable intimacy of being held by him.
She should’ve never let herself get that close again.
Not when she knew better.
Not when he wasn’t hers.
Her fingers curled into the sheets, gripping the fabric like she could pull herself back into reality. She wouldn’t be this girl.
The one who let herself hope.
The one who wanted things that weren’t hers to have.
She exhaled sharply and rolled over, reaching for her phone on the nightstand.
One message. Isaac.
6:02 AM.
I had to go to work. You know the drill—won’t have my phone.
But you are staying here now.
Help yourself to everything and anything.
I left a house key on the counter.
Do your thing. I’ll be back around dinner time, hopefully. Never any guarantees with this place.
Rosie stared at the words, her stomach twisting.
There he went again. Deciding things for her.
Like she was just part of his orbit, something to be accounted for and put somewhere safe.
Like he hadn’t wrecked her years ago without even realizing it.
She should be mad. She should be furious.
But instead, all she felt was tired.
Because this was Isaac.
This was what he did.
He swooped in, fixed things, protected her—even when she didn’t want him to. Even when she needed to stand on her own.
She inhaled slowly, fingers brushing over the message again.
She wouldn’t let herself break over this.
Over him.
Not anymore.
She had fought for every single piece of her life.
And she would fight for this, too.
For herself. For the life she wanted.
Even if it meant walking out of this house, this bed, this thing between them that had never been enough.
Even if it meant letting him go.
Rosie swallowed hard, blinking against the sharp sting in her eyes, before tossing the phone onto the mattress and pushing herself up.
She wouldn’t be that girl.
She had survived worse.
And she wasn’t about to let Isaac fucking Rayleigh be the thing that broke her now.
Rosie woke slow, the kind of slow that felt indulgent. The sheets were soft, too soft, too nice—and that alone made her uneasy.
She wasn’t used to luxury.
She wasn’t used to things like this.
The house was quiet, the sun slipping through the blinds, the sound of distant waves rolling up the shore. For a moment, she just lay there, letting herself take it in.
Then she shook it off, because this wasn’t her life.
She pulled herself out of bed, stretching, her oversized black t-shirt slipping down one shoulder as she padded into the bathroom.
And Jesus, the bathroom.
Isaac might be military, but he lived like a man who had money now.
Luxe shower.
Big. Open. Hot water on demand.
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.
And stared.
Jesus.
It was full.
Not just full.
Stocked.
Top-shelf yogurt.
Fresh fruit—berries, pineapple, mango, things she never let herself buy.
Coffee. Real coffee.
Not black.
Not powdered.
Cream.
She felt guilty.
She shouldn’t take anything. She didn’t belong here.
But she was hungry. And for once, she let herself have it. A coffee, made exactly the way she liked it. A yogurt, thick and smooth and stupidly good. A handful of fruit that she’d never splurge on herself. She took the first bite slowly, letting herself savor it.
God.
She swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the counter. She was not used to this. But maybe—just for today—she wouldn’t fight it.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Amy—who had basically become her San Diego talent manager. She picked it up, scrolling through her calendar. Meetings today. A follow-up call with the gallery. A sit-down with Greg Taylor’s team to discuss the potential commission. A lunch meeting with an art rep who might be able to help her break further into the San Diego scene.
Time to get at it.
Rosie exhaled, rolling her shoulders back.
She might be living in someone else’s world for now.
But she’d make damn sure she built her own.