Isobel sat perfectly still, as if the very air around her had thickened. The kitchen was warm, carrying the last traces of sage and white wine, but the heat pooling in her chest came from his words.

She stared at him, the lines of his face carved deep in the soft lamplight—man’s man, rodeo king, billionaire with Wall Street polish, yet right now he looked like a boy handing her his only treasured possession.

“Ryder…” Her voice caught, and she laughed softly at herself, pressing a ...