9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
B y Monday evening, the day had been long as hell, but Isaac still wasn’t done. He could feel it—that restless energy still burning under his skin, never fully drained.
SEAL life did that to a man. It wired you differently. There was no such thing as stopping. No such thing as just enough.
It was always more.
More training, more grinding, more pushing until you hit the wall—then finding a way to break straight through it.
Isaac wiped the sweat from his brow as he finished his laps in the pool, pulling himself out of the water in one smooth motion, shoulders burning from another grueling two-hour dive workout. His trainer, Trace, was already waiting for him on the deck, stopwatch in hand, shaking his head with that same deadpan disapproval.
“You’re overdoing it,” Trace said. “Again.”
Isaac grabbed a towel, shaking out his wet hair, unapologetic.
“Didn’t hear you stopping me.”
Trace gave him a look. “That’s because arguing with you is pointless.”
Isaac grinned, unbothered. “Glad we understand each other.”
The thing was—he needed this.
He needed the push, the grind, the exhaustion that settled into his bones after hours of straining every muscle in his body past the point of reason.
Because if he didn’t? If he slowed down? If he stopped moving? He didn’t know what the hell would be left of him.
Trace sighed, tucking the stopwatch into his pocket. “Seriously, man. You’re back what—two days? Already you’re running yourself into the ground. How many hours did you sleep this weekend?”
Isaac exhaled, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “Enough.”
Trace scoffed. “Bullshit.”
But before he could say anything else, Adam Carrington’s voice cut through the humid air.
“Rayleigh, quit your flirting and get your bitch ass over here.”
Isaac turned, spotting his platoon chief standing near the edge of the training deck, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Adam was one of those rock-solid, unshakable types—the kind of guy who had seen it all and had zero patience for anyone’s bullshit. Isaac respected the hell out of him.
“How was the dive?” Adam asked as Isaac approached, falling in beside him.
“Cold,” Isaac smirked. “Boring. Need to spice it up.”
Adam shook his head. “Shit, you got a death wish?”
“Nah,” Isaac mused. “Just like a challenge.”
Adam sighed, but there was something like amusement behind it.
“Your LPO’s looking for you,” he said, nodding toward the main compound. “Go check in with Shaw before he loses his shit.”
Isaac chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to deprive him of his daily rant.”
Adam clapped a hand on his shoulder, a rare moment of warmth. “Good work today. Don’t burn yourself out before the next op.”
Isaac just grinned. No promises.
Colson was already pacing in the team room when Isaac found him, shuffling through mission notes, half a protein shake in one hand, a scowl in place like it was permanent.
“Fuck, finally,” Colson muttered when he spotted Isaac. “You live in the fucking pool now?”
Isaac snorted, dropping into one of the chairs, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”
Colson shook his head, not in the mood for games. “You’re booked for another dive assessment on Thursday. New guy coming in needs to see what elite actually looks like.”
“Translation,” Isaac smirked, “You want me to humble him.”
Colson grinned. “Something like that.”
Isaac just nodded.
This was the only life he knew. The next mission. The next deployment. The next impossible task to throw himself at until there was nothing left. He didn’t have time for pottery classes. Didn’t have time for relationships. His sex life was temporary, fleeting, nothing that ever lasted.
Because how the hell could it? He was always halfway out the door. Always waiting for the next call, the next rotation. And no chick worth her salt would wait around for him to just cheat on her while he was touring the globe. That was the price of being in this world.
And he’d made peace with that a long time ago.
But, for some dumb reason, last night, he’d gone home and brought someone with him. Someone damn worth her salt—more than he deserves.
Isaac exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. He was fucked. And he knew it.
“Something on your mind, Rayleigh?” Colson asked, eyeing him.
Isaac shook his head, pushing the thought down. Deep. “Nah. Just hungry as hell.”
Colson grinned. “Then get the hell out of here and eat. You look like shit.”
Isaac smirked, pushing to his feet.
Right.
Food.
And then—back to whatever the hell he was doing with Rosie Quentin. Whatever that was.
Isaac slid into the driver’s seat of his truck, muscles still burning from the afternoon workout, damp hair curling at the ends from his last set of laps in the pool. His body was tired, but his mind? Restless.
Usually, his post-work routine was simple.
Eat. Workout. Sleep.
Or eat. Go out. Fuck.
Or eat. Pass out. Work.
Some variation of the above. Nothing complicated. Nothing that required too much thought.
What was it gonna be tonight?
He flipped through his phone, scrolling through old texts. Maybe it was time to call up someone from the past. Someone familiar. Someone whose name he barely remembered but whose body he knew well enough.
But then—a new text.
His eyes flicked to the sender.
Fucking Elodie.
Guess what, sailor? I’m coming your way.
Bit of a surprise stop for work.
You around tonight for dinner? Drinks?
I’m at the Pendry. Room 1405.
Classic.
Elodie traveled constantly, some high-end consultant gig that had her bouncing around the world. They’d met in a bunch of hotels over the past six months. Never their homes.
She’d never been to his place.
And he liked it that way.
But then there was Rosie.
Isaac hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.
He shouldn’t care.
He wasn’t checking in.
He just needed to make sure everything was handled at home before he committed to plans.
That was it.
He tapped her contact and hit call.
No answer.
A second later, a text from Rosie. Hey, still in meetings. What’s up?
He ran his tongue over his teeth, leaning back against the headrest. He wrote back. What’s the plan this evening?
A beat. Then—
I dunno when I’ll be back… I’m at the Grant.
Isaac exhaled through his nose.
Of course.
Billionaires and meetings and whatever the fuck she was getting herself into.
Cool, sounds like you’ll be late. I’ll catch you later.
He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, gripping the wheel, foot pressing down hard on the gas.
The truck burned out of the parking lot, tires gripping pavement as he peeled out of base.
It was already dark, the lights of San Diego glowing in the distance, pulling him in.
He grabbed his phone again at a red light, thumb flying over the keyboard.
Be there in a bit.
Sent.
To Elodie.
Because Rosie wasn’t home.
And Isaac wasn’t staying in tonight.
* * * * *
Traffic out of Coronado was a goddamn nightmare.
Isaac gripped the wheel, jaw tight as he sat in standstill gridlock on the bridge, the sun dipping low, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. The kind of sunset that belonged on a fucking postcard. He didn’t even appreciate it—too busy white-knuckling his patience.
His phone buzzed.
Elodie.
What’s your ETA?
He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders, debating.
Pendry was five minutes ahead. The Grant was a right turn.
He had a choice.
The sure thing—Elodie, wine, hotel sheets, a body he knew well enough to get lost in for a few hours.
Or.
He let out a slow, controlled breath and turned right.
Fucking hell.
He didn’t even think about it. His hands just moved on their own.
He called Rosie. No answer.
Okay, one more time.
The line clicked, then her exasperated voice came through.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
Isaac grinned, easing into traffic. “Girl, come on. I’m picking you up. Be outside in four minutes.”
She huffed. “You’re fucking lucky my meeting just ended.”
“And you’re fucking lucky I’m starving as fuck and taking us out to a goddamn feast.”
She made a sound of disbelief, but he could hear the smile.
“And drinks,” he added. “And you can’t say no.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then—that laugh.
That deep, unapologetic Rosie laugh that he fucking loved—the one she tried to smother when she was feeling stubborn, but when she let it out? It hit him like a fist to the chest.
He smirked, satisfied.
“See you in a minute, Coco.”
Pulling up to The Grant, Isaac tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, exhaling as he scanned the entrance.
And then—
There she was.
His stomach tightened.
Fuck.
The doors glided open, and Rosie stepped out onto the curb, moving with that effortless confidence she didn’t even realize she had.
Black stilettos. Black dress. Slim-fitting, hugging every goddamn curve.
Long, dark brown hair curling down her back.
Glasses framing those bright, piercing blue eyes.
Porcelain skin.
Cherry lips.
Lashes dark, fluttering as she scanned the street—until she found him.
And smiled.
Not in some flirtatious, intentional way.
No, it was just Rosie.
The opposite of the tall, leggy, tanned French blonde he’d been getting into trouble with for the past six months.
And yet, somehow—
Somehow, he had turned right.
Isaac held his breath as she walked up and slid into the passenger seat.
“Hey, Rayleigh,” she said, kicking one long leg over the other.
Isaac flicked his gaze to her—blue eyes, cherry lips, glasses catching the light—then turned back to the road, exhaling slow.
Fucking hell.
What the fuck was he doing?