Bella Rose came through the door like a warm wind off the barrel track—quick, bright, and carrying a paper sack in one hand and a cardboard drink carrier in the other.
“Alright, lady, spill it.” She plunked both on the counter, popping the lid on her latte with the practiced flick of a champion barrel racer. “I brought bagels and caffeine for your confession.”
Isobel, still barefoot and nursing the aftertaste of Ryder’s coffee, arched a brow. “Confession? Or debrief?”
“Same thing when it comes to men like him.” Rose slid onto a stool, leaning forward like a schoolgirl with a juicy secret.
Once they’d migrated to the kitchen table, Isobel let it all spill—every detail from that first spin on the dance floor to the moment Ryder pressed his lips to her hand on the porch. She kept her tone
