Ryder’s truck growled low as it eased into Isobel’s drive, headlights catching the pale shine of Victoria’s blonde hair as she strutted down the walk, the edges of a smirk still lingering on her painted mouth.

Ryder’s gut clenched, his boots hit the gravel before the engine fully died. “What the hell are you doin’ here, Victoria?” His voice cracked like a whip, New York edge cuttin’ through the Southern drawl.

Victoria didn’t flinch. She only tucked the sonogram envelope ...