Isobel slipped into the grand bathroom, the kind of space that belonged more to a five-star hotel suite than a ranch house, and eased the door shut behind her. Her bare feet sank into the cool tile as she wandered, fingertips gliding over the polished granite of the twin sinks. A single bottle of cologne caught her eye, square and understated, its glass dark as whiskey. She uncapped it, lifted it to her nose, and breathed deep. The scent was a potent mixture—leather, cedar, bourbon-soaked nights, and some indefinable sharpness that was pure Ryder. It raised a shiver through her spine. With reluctance, she set it back in its place like a f*******n indulgence and moved toward the shower.
The space itself was indulgence—larger than her old walk-in closet, paneled in slate, chrome gleaming li
