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 hand to her lips. “You—” She shook her head. “You have no idea what that means to me.”
“Oh, I’ve got an idea.” His smile was small but sure, laced with that slow Tennessee drawl that softened the New York edges in him. “I meant every damn word, darlin’. Ain’t the kind of thing you write unless you’re ready to p
