4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
T he next evening, Rosie had a headache before she even walked into the gallery.
Not from drinking—she’d barely had a single cocktail last night.
Not from lack of sleep—though she’d tossed and turned for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying Isaac’s mouth on hers, his hands caging her in, the weight of his body so close.
No, the headache was from all of it. From him. From the fact that today was supposed to be a fresh start, a huge moment for her, and instead, all she could think about was the way he’d pinned her to that wall and kissed her like he had every right to.
She exhaled sharply, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder as she stepped through the doors of The Haven Gallery, an intimate but high-profile space in the Gaslamp Quarter that specialized in showcasing emerging artists.
It was the perfect place for her. A place that could actually push her career forward, introduce her to collectors, critics, real opportunities beyond just the indie circuit in L.A.
And yet—
Her skin buzzed with nerves.
She smoothed her hands down the front of her dark green wrap dress, heels clicking against the polished floor as she took in the space. The walls were clean, minimal, letting the artwork command the room.
And there they were.
Her pieces.
The Unclaimed series.
Rosie swallowed hard, staring at them—the fragments of herself, stretched out across the walls in paint and texture and raw, unfiltered memory.
Each piece told a story. Of loneliness. Of waiting. Of being a child who belonged to no one.
She wrapped her arms around herself, exhaling slowly. This was it. This was the moment she had worked for.
And she’d be damned if she let Isaac fucking Rayleigh take up any more space in her head today.
“Rosie!”
She turned at the sound of her name, spotting Amy Marshall, her gallery rep, waving her over. Amy was sharp, put-together, the kind of woman who could sell a painting with two sentences and a well-timed smile.
“You ready for this?” Amy grinned, pressing a glass of champagne into Rosie’s hand. “We’ve got a great crowd coming tonight—collectors, press, a few people from the San Diego Museum of Art. You’re in the big leagues now.”
Rosie smiled, but it felt tight, too controlled. “No pressure, right?”
Amy squeezed her arm. “You’re going to kill it. I can already tell people are obsessed with the work.”
Rosie nodded, trying to let that sink in. Trying to let herself believe it.
But as the doors opened, as the first waves of guests started filtering in, as the space filled with murmurs and clinking glasses and the energy of something real and important happening—
She felt it.
A presence.
A shift in the air.
Him.
She turned too fast.
And there, standing near the entrance, was a man that Rosie refused to see.
Isaac Rayleigh could stand there all night, dark jeans, low-slung baseball cap, that infuriating loose confidence dripping off him like he belonged anywhere he walked into—
But he didn’t belong here.
Not in this space.
Not in her world.
Not anymore.
So she ignored him. Utterly, completely, viciously ignored him.
Instead, she turned toward a middle-aged couple lingering in front of one of her largest pieces—a three-foot canvas streaked in deep, unsettling blues and burnt ochre, a storm of texture that collapsed into the silhouette of a small child standing alone in an empty doorway.
One of the earliest pieces in the Unclaimed series.
One of the hardest to paint.
One of the hardest to look at.
She forced a small, even smile and approached. “Hi, I’m Rosie Quentin. I’m the artist.”
The woman turned, eyes flicking to her, then back to the painting. “This… this is incredible. It feels so—”
“Heavy,” her husband finished, voice quiet, almost reverent.
Rosie nodded, folding her hands in front of her, grounding herself. “That’s the idea.”
The woman’s gaze lingered on the doorway in the painting. “It feels like something’s waiting there.”
Rosie inhaled slowly. “Not waiting. Hoping.”
The woman swallowed, something flickering behind her expression. She nodded. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.”
Rosie smiled, genuinely this time, said a quiet thanks as they moved on.
“Good,” Amy said at her side, appearing like a ghost, a glass of water in hand. “That’s how you talk about your work. Let them feel it. Don’t overexplain. They’ll buy from the gut.”
Rosie took the water gratefully. “You’re terrifyingly good at this.”
Amy smirked, all warmth and practical wisdom, her sleek brown bob barely shifting as she scanned the room like a general surveying her battlefield. “I just know how people work, sweetheart. You made them feel something. That’s half the job.”
Rosie exhaled, glancing around, drinking in the space.
The gallery was warm with soft golden light, the white walls allowing her pieces to breathe, to pull people in. The scent of champagne and linen napkins mixed with something faintly metallic from the paint, the weight of so many eyes on her work leaving her both exhilarated and exhausted.
She wanted to be present.
She wanted to fully take this in, let herself believe that she belonged here.
But Isaac was still standing near the entrance.
Watching.
She felt him, even when she wouldn’t look.
His presence buzzed in the back of her mind, too loud, too familiar, too much.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t push in.
Didn’t force his way to her.
Not yet.
He was waiting.
And she hated him for it.
“Okay,” Amy clapped her hands together, snapping Rosie back to the present. “One of the gallery’s best buyers is here—Greg Taylor, owns a private collection, also sits on the San Diego Museum of Art board. He’s interested in your work.”
Rosie nodded too fast, too stiffly. “Great.”
Amy gave her a sharp look. “You good?”
Rosie’s jaw locked.
She could still feel Isaac, burning a hole through her from across the room.
So she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “Never better.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked straight into the next conversation, leaving every single thing about last night buried under layers of fresh paint and polite smiles.
Isaac could watch all he wanted.
He wouldn’t exist to her tonight.
Before she knew it, Rosie had lost track of everything.
The time. The crowd. Isaac.
She’d been too deep in conversation, her nerves stretched thin and humming from the weight of the night. Too many people, too many voices, too many eyes on her work.
And Greg Taylor was still in front of her, still watching her with an intensity she wasn’t used to.
“Well, I have to say,” Greg said, swirling the last bit of his wine in his glass, “I haven’t felt this way about a collection in years.”
Rosie’s cheeks were warm. From the wine, from the praise, from the way Greg had been engaged—completely and utterly absorbed in her words, her work, her past.
It had started simple. A few polite questions. An interest in Unclaimed.
But then Amy had come by, offering wine to visitors, and Greg had taken two glasses, handing one to Rosie with an easy smile.
“Let’s toast to your success,” he’d said, expectant.
She hadn’t been able to turn it down.
And now?
Now, she’d had just enough wine to loosen her tongue.
Just enough to talk about her work without filtering herself.
Greg had listened. Really listened.
Not just to what the paintings were, but to what they meant.
“It’s so visceral,” he had said at one point, standing in front of a smaller piece—a deep, layered abstraction of a child’s hands gripping the edge of a plastic mattress. A bed that wasn’t really theirs. A home that never belonged to them.
“I’ve never seen foster care represented in this way,” Greg continued now, shaking his head slightly. “It’s breathtaking.”
Rosie swallowed, forcing a tight smile. Breathtaking.
She wasn’t used to men like Greg Taylor looking at her like that.
Like she was something worth investing in.
Like she was something worth knowing.
Greg leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I want to purchase several of your pieces.”
Rosie’s breath hitched. “Several?”
“And I want to commission something new.” His expression was serious, calculating but warm. He meant it.
“I—” She blinked, stomach flipping. “That’s—”
“I’ll be in touch,” Greg interrupted smoothly, the certainty in his voice grounding her. “You have something rare, Rosie. Don’t doubt that.”
She exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
His eyes lingered just a little too long.
But before she could think too much about it, Amy swept back in, gathering up empty glasses, nodding toward the far end of the room where staff were starting to close things down.
“It’s eleven,” Amy said. “They’re shutting the doors soon.”
Rosie hadn’t even realized.
She blinked, suddenly lightheaded from the wine, from everything.
“Time flies,” Greg said, finishing his drink, giving her one last assessing look. “We’ll talk soon, Rosie.”
Then he turned, disappearing toward the exit.
Rosie exhaled hard, pressing her fingers to her temples.
She needed air.
She needed a minute to herself.
Amy patted her arm gently. “I’m gonna help clean up.” Then, with a smirk, “Don’t disappear before I get to say I told you so.”
Rosie rolled her eyes but smiled, watching as Amy carried the wine glasses toward the back.
The space was almost empty now. Just a few stragglers, staff moving around, closing up.
And then.
A shift in the air.
A presence behind her.
Rosie went very, very still.
She already knew.
Before he even spoke.
“Having fun, Coco?”
His voice was low, rough, too close.
Rosie’s stomach dropped.
Slowly, she turned.
And there he was.
Isaac.
Not gone.
Not lost.
Just waiting.
And for the first time tonight, she realized—
She was not nearly drunk enough for this.
* * * * *
Rosie stood very still.
Too still.
Because everything inside her was moving.
Every part of her was vibrating, burning, unraveling under the weight of Isaac Rayleigh standing too close, smelling like whiskey and soap and the kind of recklessness she’d spent a year trying to forget.
He was exactly what she wanted.
And the last thing she needed.
She hated him.
She hated how good he looked, even now—black baseball cap pulled low, sharp jawline dusted with stubble, that loose, careless stance like he belonged anywhere he planted himself.
And those arms.
Thick, tattooed, crossed over his chest like he knew he was pissing her off, like he was doing it on purpose.
But then—
Then he spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
It hit her like a punch to the ribs.
Her spine went rigid.
She inhaled sharply, forcing her nails into her palms to keep from doing something impulsive.
Like punching him.
Or grabbing him by the stupid collar of his stupid t-shirt and pulling him into the nearest dark corner.
Instead, she narrowed her eyes. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”
Isaac tilted his head, that damn smirk playing at his mouth. “Kissing you.”
Her stomach flipped.
She forced her expression to stay blank. “Yes.”
“Punching soy boy.”
Rosie rolled her eyes. “Yes, and he has a name.”
Isaac grinned. “No way it’s a good one.”
She exhaled sharply, glaring.
His smirk faded slightly. He ran one hand over a new tattoo covering the side of his neck—one she hadn’t seen before. Artistic poppies and a skull.
His voice dropped. “Hurting you?”
Rosie’s breath hitched.
And there it was.
The thing he should have said months ago.
The thing he should have thought about before he shattered everything between them.
She swallowed hard, voice even. “More than you’ll ever know.”
Isaac’s jaw ticked.
“Tell me,” he said.
“No.”
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Coco.”
Her blood boiled.
Coco.
It was ancient history, that name. Kindergarten, elementary, Isaac handing her a melted popsicle and asking if she wanted to be his girlfriend, which lasted all of one day until she broke it off and ran home crying.
It was inside jokes and childhood secrets and scraped knees on sidewalks. They grew up one street apart, walking to school together, spending summers roasting in the sun, and—when they got older and she started bouncing around foster homes—he was the only person that still felt like home.
And now?
Now, it was a weapon.
“I am not your Coco,” she said, her voice cutting sharp and final.
Isaac’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“It’s not my responsibility to outline your shitty behavior, Isaac.” Her pulse pounded, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I told you I’m done.”
His brows pulled together. “Done with being friends?”
She lifted her chin. “All of it.”
A flicker of something wounded, unreadable, pissed off crossed his expression before he covered it with a half-smirk.
“Rosie,” he said, softer now. “You’ve been there for, like, my entire life. Why now?”
She opened her mouth—then shut it.
Because if she said it out loud, it would be too real.
Because if she said it, she might start crying, or screaming, or breaking down in a way she refused to do in front of him.
Instead, she folded her arms. “You should go.”
Isaac exhaled, tipping his head back.
And then—
Then he grinned.
Like they weren’t standing in the ruins of something wrecked, like they weren’t circling each other on the edge of a cliff.
Like this was just another one of their games.
“You remember when you tutored me in Grade 11 calculus?” he asked suddenly.
Rosie blinked. “What?”
Isaac’s smirk deepened. “I still barely passed. I think my final grade was, like, sixty-two?”
She stared at him, thrown completely off course.
“Or when I broke my wrist and you forged a note so I could get out of gym for the rest of the year?”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“Or,” he continued, taking a slow step forward, watching her too closely, “when we got locked in your parents’ garage for three hours in eighth grade and you made me swear not to tell anyone you cried?”
Rosie’s throat tightened.
“What the hell are you doing?” she muttered.
Isaac shrugged, eyes still on her, something unreadable, something too damn deep.
“Reminding you,” he said simply.
Of what?
Of who we were?
Of what you broke?
Of what you refused to see?
Before she could demand an answer, before she could push him away again, before she could do anything at all—
Amy’s voice cut through the room.
“Rosie! You still here?”
Rosie inhaled sharply, breaking the moment, blinking rapidly.
Isaac’s jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to Amy, then back to her.
She squared her shoulders. “We’re closing, Isaac. Go home.”
A long, stretched-out silence.
Then—
He nodded and turned, sauntering out that door.
* * * * *
Rosie pulled the strap of her duffel higher onto her shoulder and stepped out into the warm San Diego night.
The gallery doors shut behind her with a muted thud, muffling the last of the voices inside. Amy and the staff were still wrapping up, double-checking sales, packing away leftover wine bottles. Amy had told her she could wait, that she’d drive Rosie to wherever she was staying—but Rosie didn’t want that.
She needed to be alone.
Needed to let her head stop spinning.
Because it was spinning.
From the success.
From Greg Taylor’s offer.
From the way people had looked at her art like it mattered.
Like she mattered.
And from Isaac.
Always fucking Isaac.
Rosie exhaled hard as she walked, the city pressing in around her. The night was humid, the smell of the ocean thick in the air, mixing with the scent of asphalt, street food, the faint trace of cigarette smoke from an alley nearby.
Her heels clicked sharp against the sidewalk, but inside, she felt floaty, detached, off balance.
She had pushed him away.
For the first time in her life, she had shut him out.
And he’d let her.
That should have felt like a victory. Like proof that she was finally—finally—untangling herself from the gravitational pull that was Isaac Rayleigh.
But it didn’t feel like victory.
It felt like a hole in her chest.
Rosie adjusted her grip on her duffel, pressing forward, walking faster.
She had more important things to think about.
Greg Taylor.
His offer.
He’d been so certain about her work. So serious about buying. Commissioning.
A real collector. A man with connections, money, influence. Someone who could change things for her.
It felt… surreal.
Exciting.
Terrifying.
Rosie shook the thoughts off as she reached the transit stop—a dimly lit bench on a mostly empty street.
She wasn’t the only one waiting.
A man sat at the far end of the bench, hunched forward, arms resting on his knees. Thin. Twitchy.
She took the opposite side, keeping space between them.
She knew how to be careful.
She’d spent her entire fucking life being careful.
But she was still wearing the night on her skin.
Still in her art-show dress, her makeup soft and smudged, heels too nice, duffel bag slung over her shoulder like a target.
And he noticed.
His head tilted toward her, slow and deliberate.
“Hey, mama,” he said, voice low, slick. “You lookin’ real fine tonight.”
Rosie’s stomach tightened.
She stared straight ahead.
Didn’t engage.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t breathe.
But he wasn’t done.
He shifted toward her, just slightly. “What’s in the bag?”
Her pulse picked up.
Still, she didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
The street was quiet.
Too quiet.
The nearest shop was half a block away, closed for the night. No pedestrians. No traffic. Just the faint flicker of a streetlamp and the deep, aching silence of a city that had already moved on without her.
The man made a sound in the back of his throat. Something low and amused.
“You ain’t got a ride, do you?”
Rosie’s fingers curled tight around her duffel strap.
The bus was nowhere in sight.
Her heart started pounding.
She should have waited for Amy.
She should have let someone drive her.
She should have never let herself believe she could exist in a night like this without something coming for her.
The man shifted closer.
And Rosie braced.