10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
T he bastard had taken her somewhere gorgeous.
A perfect little beachside patio on Coronado, the kind of boutique restaurant that was tucked into a quiet stretch of sand, far enough from the tourist traps to feel exclusive, intimate.
Rosie hated it. Hated the warm ocean breeze, the scent of salt and fresh citrus, the golden-pink glow of the setting sun sinking into the water. Hated how fucking romantic it all was. Most of all, she hated that Isaac knew exactly what he was doing.
She glared at him over the rim of her glass. “You’re a sick fuck, Rayleigh.”
Isaac, the sick fuck in question, smirked as he lifted his own margarita. “Guilty.”
The salt on the rim of her glass burned against her lips as she took a sip. It was her second.
He had ordered another round without asking.
Of course he had.
It was blistering hot, the kind of San Diego summer heat that wrapped around her skin, made her body feel too warm, too aware of everything.
She reached down, starting to slip off her stilettos, but Isaac clocked it immediately.
His smirk deepened.
“You taking your shoes off?” he drawled, stretching one muscular arm over the back of his chair. Lazy. Relaxed. Infuriatingly sexy.
She shot him a look. “It’s hot.”
His brown eyes flickered. “Yeah, it is.”
Her face burned. “Not what I meant.”
Isaac leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “What’d you mean, then?”
Rosie rolled her eyes, kicking one heel off and sighing in relief. “I mean it’s a thousand degrees, and I’ve been wearing these since before my meetings.”
Isaac hummed, watching her with that unreadable expression, the one that made her feel like he was seeing too much. “Pretty sure the rule is, if you take the shoes off, you gotta stay barefoot the rest of the night.”
She gave him a dry look. “That’s not a rule.”
He grinned. “It is now.”
Rosie let out a soft groan, tilting her head back, reaching up to gather her hair into a ponytail. The evening heat was unbearable, thick and warm, her skin prickling under the weight of it.
Or maybe that was just Isaac watching her. She felt his gaze the moment she lifted her arms, the way his eyes tracked the movement, slow and deliberate. And ugh, she hated it.
Hated how her pulse quickened, how her skin felt too sensitive in the heat.
Hated that Isaac looked so goddamn good. Sun-kissed skin, black t-shirt stretched across broad, muscular shoulders, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves, the strong curve of his jaw flexing when he took another sip of his drink.
And she wasn’t the only one noticing.
The waitress—a pretty blonde in a short black skirt—had been hovering, smiling too much, asking just a little too sweetly if they needed anything else.
Because why wouldn’t she?
Isaac was gorgeous, and available, and dangerous in that way that made women forget their own names.
And Rosie—Rosie hated that she cared.
But mostly, she hated how much she actually loved all of it. The restaurant. The drinks. The food. Him sitting there, his undivided attention on her.
And then—
Isaac, the sickest fuck of them all, waved the waitress over and ordered tequila shots.
Rosie groaned. “Isaac.”
He shot her a lazy grin. “Rosalie.”
“This is going to be so expensive,” she muttered.
Isaac shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a charity case.”
He shot her a look. “Obviously.”
Of course he would pay. He always did. And she hated that too. Hated it so much that when the shots arrived, she downed hers without a fight.
And hated the way Isaac watched her do it, smirking the whole damn time.
* * * * *
The sand was cool beneath Rosie’s bare feet, the night air thick with salt and the slow, steady crash of waves. She walked beside Isaac, her heels dangling from her fingers, her body loose with tequila, but her mind still sharp, still too aware of him.
They were heading back to his place, just a short walk down the beach. Too short.
She wished the distance were longer.
Or maybe she wished she weren’t here at all.
Isaac, hands tucked into his pockets, too damn relaxed, glanced at her. “So, you still living at that place on Cherry?”
Rosie hesitated.
Then, lightly, too lightly, “No. I moved.”
Isaac tilted his head, suspicious already. “To where?”
“Nearby.”
A pause.
A slow blink.
Shit.
Isaac always fucking knew when she was hiding something.
His voice dropped, edged with that impatient, low-command tone he used when he was zeroing in on something.
“What’s your address?”
Rosie sighed, tightening her grip on her shoes.
“Isaac, please don’t.”
He stopped walking.
Just stopped, right there in the sand, making her stop too.
And suddenly, it was just them.
The night stretching wide. The ocean behind them, restless and endless, crashing up against a truth she didn’t want to say out loud.
Isaac turned fully toward her, brown eyes sharp. “Rosie.”
Fuck.
She blew out a slow, shaky breath. “I let my apartment go four months ago.”
His jaw ticked.
“I sold everything I own,” she continued, forcing herself to keep her voice even. “Took a side job. Still couldn’t afford rent. Let alone food. Supplies.”
His stare was unmoving, unreadable.
“So you’re homeless,” he said, flat, matter-of-fact.
Rosie’s stomach twisted. “No, I’m staying in the studio.”
Isaac blinked. “The studio,” he repeated slowly, like the words didn’t make sense.
She swallowed. “It’s a small warehouse rental. Me and a few other artists split it. It’s just temporary.”
Isaac’s face was stone. “Temporary.”
“We have a couch,” she rushed out, trying to make it sound less dire. “A full bathroom. It’s fine, Isaac.”
He stared at her.
Long enough that her skin prickled, her chest tightened.
“What about your stuff?” he finally asked.
She looked away. “I have nothing.”
His head tilted slightly, like he’d been punched.
“Everything I have is in that duffel bag,” she admitted.
A long, heavy silence.
Then—
“Okay,” Isaac said, way too calm.
Rosie narrowed her eyes. “Okay, what?”
Isaac took a step closer.
“You’re legit fucking homeless.”
“Isaac—”
“You’re broke.”
She gritted her teeth. “Stop—”
“You have nothing.”
“Isaac—”
“You live with me now.”
She gaped at him.
“The fuck I do!”
Isaac shrugged, completely unfazed. “Yup.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Isaac, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous is you sleeping in a goddamn warehouse when I have an entire extra bedroom.”
Rosie’s fingers curled into her palms, her skin burning with frustration, with humiliation, with something deeper she didn’t want to name.
“This is exactly the problem with you,” she snapped.
Isaac’s brow lifted. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she seethed. “You swoop in, like this… this fucking knight in shining armor and just decide things for people. For me. Like I’m some kind of goddamn charity case—”
“That’s not what this is,” Isaac bit out.
“Isn’t it?” she shot back, eyes blazing. “You think I don’t know how people see me? How you see me?”
Isaac stilled.
“Poor, sad Rosie Quentin,” she continued, voice sharp, cutting. “The girl from the shit end of Signal Hill. The one who had nothing. The one who had no one. The one Isaac Rayleigh had to take care of because who else would?”
Isaac’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”
“Just admit it,” she hissed. “Admit that I’ve never been anything but a fucking pity project to you.”
Isaac’s face darkened. “That’s not what you are to me, Rosie.”
“Then what the fuck am I?”
His silence was damning.
Her throat burned.
This was why.
This was why she had written him off.
Because she had heard him.
A year ago.
She’d heard Shay and Chris teasing him outside a bar, asking if he’d ever fucked her.
And she’d heard Isaac’s disgusted fucking response.
No. Fucking never. Ever.
Like the idea was unthinkable. Like it was gross. Like she was gross.
Not one of his sexy, leggy models. Not some glamorous beach babe.
Just Rosie.
A pity case.
And now he wanted her in his house?
No fucking way.
Rosie took a slow, measured breath.
Her voice was calm, but dangerous.
“You don’t get to do this, Isaac.”
His fingers twitched at his sides. “Do what?”
“Make me feel small and then play the hero.”
Isaac’s face shifted.
Like she had landed a direct hit.
And good.
She turned on her heel, stalking down the beach, rage coiling, twisting, burning.
But Isaac grabbed her wrist, stopping her.
“Rosie—”
She ripped her arm free.
“Let me go, Isaac.”
He stared at her.
Then—voice low, controlled, immovable—
“You’re staying with me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Isaac, I swear to god—”
“Get over it,” he muttered, grabbing her hand again, pulling her forward.
“Isaac—”
“Too late,” he said, dragging her with him. “Decision’s made.”
She yanked at his grip, but it was useless. Because Isaac Rayleigh always got what he wanted. And right now, what he wanted—for whatever fucked up reason—
Was her in his house.