As they crossed the gravel toward the club, the crunch under their boots mixed with the muffled bass drifting from inside. The night smelled faintly of diesel and fried onions from the concession trailer. Isobel felt her pulse quicken—part excitement, part nerves. This evening had already taken a turn she hadn’t planned on.

“What?” she asked suddenly, realizing Ryder had caught Bellarose’s earlier jab about Wrangler butts. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she turned her face just ...