Isobel Wright was rinsing out the last of her coffee cup when her phone lit up across the counter. The vibration against the granite startled her from her thoughts, and when she wiped her hands and picked it up, the name on the screen sent a ripple through her chest.
Ryder: Be ready by Friday afternoon. Weekend trip. Pack light, but nice.
Before she could even form a reply, another message followed, short and direct.
Ryder: Limo will be at your door at three.
Her fingers tightened around the phone. That was Ryder Hayes—no preamble, no explanations—just a decision dropped in her lap like a challenge. A slow heat unfurled low in her belly, not from the message alone but from what it implied: he wanted her with him.
By Friday, the late summer heat lay over the Georgia fields like a wool
