Isobel’s backyard was a little piece of heaven carved right into the edge of town—a verdant retreat that smelled faintly of honeysuckle and the faint tang of mesquite drifting from somewhere down the block. Tall, leafy trees leaned in like old friends, shading the moss that crept between flagstones, its green rich and soft against the cool gray stone. Clay pots overflowed with blooms—snapdragons, geraniums, and marigolds—spilling color into every corner. White tin candleholders with citronella flames flickered alongside the warm glow of tiki torches, their light playing over a wrought iron patio set softened by gray cushions and the cheerful pop of patterned throw pillows.
Ryder paused at the threshold, his boots rooted in place as he took it all in. “Darlin’, you didn’t tell me you were
