Isobel was somewhere deep in a dream—soft light, warm air, a low hum of contentment—when a distant sound pried her halfway back to waking. Water. The steady, unbroken rush of it. She rolled over, stretching long, toes curling under the sheet, eyes still heavy.
The ache in her shoulders reminded her she wasn't in her own bed. Memory slunk in, piece by piece—the barn drive bypassed, the massive truck, the sprawling lodge of a house, and Ryder, drunk as a sailor on shore leave. Her eyes blinked open just as the shower cut off, replaced by the quick rasp of a glass door sliding open.
She sat up, swung her legs over the side, and was halfway through a stretch when he walked in.
Ryder—bare as the day he was born, steam still clinging to him, towel ruffling his dark hair into a careless mess—stopped short.
Isobel's scream split the room. She flung herself backward, yanking the blanket over her head like it might make him vanish.
He jerked, dropped the towel, and in one startled motion, covered himself with both hands. "Who the hell—?" His voice was rough, disoriented, that New York edge threading the Southern drawl. "Hey, who's in here?"
From beneath the blanket, she managed, "It's me, Ryder. Isobel."
A long exhale—part relief, part disbelief. "Lord above." He let his hands fall away without thinking, stepping toward the bed with a slow grin edging onto his face. "So… you and me? We?"
Her hands flew down from her face, indignation sparking hot in her chest. "No! We did not!" But her voice faltered when her eyes caught on him—broad shoulders beaded with water, drops trailing down hard muscle, the lazy confidence in the way he stood there. Heat flared in her cheeks, and she whipped her gaze away, throwing a hand over her eyes.
"Ryder, for God's sake—put some clothes on."
Ryder glanced down, as if just realizing the state he was in, and gave a low, self-deprecating chuckle. "Well, hell." He pivoted, looking one way, then the other—like a man half-tempted to saunter across the room anyway—before jogging toward the open closet. His hand found the green-and-navy plaid robe hanging on the door. It was the kind of thing you bought in Manhattan but wore like you'd owned it since the cradle. He shrugged it on, tied the belt snug at his hips, and padded back toward her.
Without asking, he reached for her wrists, warm fingers curling around them, and gently eased her hands from her face.
Isobel cracked her fingers just enough to check—robe secured, chest covered. Satisfied, she let her hands drop fully, finding him grinning down at her, those infuriating dimples deepening. Her pulse skipped, just once.
"So, Bel," he drawled, that Tennessee cadence softened by years of city boardrooms. "Can I call you Bel?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, you can." Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Good." His gaze drifted, taking in her bare legs beneath the hem of his borrowed shorts. "Now, tell me, darlin'—why are you in my bed… wearing my clothes… if nothing happened?" His grip slid from her wrists to her hands, and she felt the warmth of him soak through her skin.
The question rattled around inside her, her heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears. She cleared her throat. "You passed out at the club last night. I drove you home, got you inside. Didn't exactly have a ride back, so…" Her mouth curved in a wry smile. "I figured if I was stuck here against my will, I might as well sleep in the best bed in the house."
"Mmh." He gave a slow nod, lips quirking. "Well, that explains the headache and why I woke up on the couch." In one smooth motion, he pulled her to her feet. His arms slid around her waist, drawing her flush against him. She let out an involuntary squeak when her body met the hard line of his.
"So," he murmured, eyes glinting, "how about we get back into that big bed and take it for a spin?"
She braced her palms against his chest, pushing him back. "I don't think so."
He tilted his head, grin sharpening into mischief. "Aw, come on, beautiful. We're here, I'm practically naked… why not?"
Before she could answer, his arms found her again, his breath grazing her neck as he lowered his head.
"Ryder—no." Her voice cracked like a whip. She shoved him back, stepping wide of both him and the bed, planting herself solidly. "I said no, Ryder. And I mean no."
Ryder's hands shot up, the sharp motion cutting through the charged air between them. "Fine, then. Lord knows I thought you were lookin' for a good time, and I was more than willin' to oblige. But if that's not what you want…" He flicked his fingers in a dismissive wave, voice dipped in the kind of casual arrogance that masked hurt. "Go on, then."
He turned his back to her, yanking open a dresser drawer like the wood had insulted him. His palms pressed flat to the top, head bowed, shoulders tight. For a beat, the only sound was the thrum of his breathing. Then—bang—he shoved it hard, the whole dresser rattling against the log wall, the echo hanging in the vaulted room like a gunshot at an empty rodeo arena.
When he spun back around, there was something raw in his eyes. "Bel, I'm so—"
But the doorway gaped empty.
He bolted, bare feet pounding the wood, and caught sight of her on the main floor, dress hem swaying as she strode for the door. "Isobel! Please, wait!" His voice cracked somewhere between command and plea. He took the stairs two at a time, the way a man charges a chute before the gate swings wide.
Her hand was already on the knob when he caught her arm. She flinched, throwing her arms up, and it stopped him cold. Ryder stepped back instantly, both hands raised like a man facing down a skittish colt.
"I'm sorry," he said, breathless, voice dropping softer. "I don't… I don't know why I acted like that. You want to go? Fine—I'll take you. I'll drive you myself."
She crossed her arms, chin tilted, glare sharp enough to cut leather.
"I don't blame you," he went on, slower now, words wrapped in contrition. "I was actin' like an ass, and I'm sorry." His hand came up, palm pressed flat over his heart, a gesture that looked more Manhattan boardroom than Texas barn. "Truly. I am."
He eased a step toward her, but she retreated, the distance between them stretching taut. Ryder stopped, raked a hand through his hair, and sighed. "It'll never happen again, Bel. Not from me."
Still she didn't answer, her silence hanging like the pause before the buzzer. Ryder finally turned and headed toward the kitchen, his steps heavier now. After a moment's hesitation, she followed—like a rider deciding to get back in the saddle, just to see where the next eight seconds might take her.