Isobel sat across from John in the dimly lit booth of the small-town steakhouse, the smell of sizzling ribeye and fresh-baked bread drifting through the air. She’d been smiling and making polite conversation, but somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, her heart stopped pretending.
She didn’t want this.
John was kind, easy to talk to, and carried himself with the smooth confidence of a man who’d closed a hundred deals in boardrooms far from dusty roads. He made her laugh, he listened—but he wasn’t Ryder. Every laugh felt hollow, every smile borrowed. She wasn’t leaning forward in her seat the way she did with Ryder, hanging on every word. She wasn’t watching the way his eyes changed when he was thinking or how his voice softened when he spoke to her.
No…she’d been fooling h
