Inside, the cool air carried the faint tang of lemon and fresh-cut hay drifting through the open kitchen window. Savannah had already poured three tall glasses, each beaded with condensation, and was perched on the sofa, eyes fixed on a cartoon. The closed captioning rolled in neat white letters across the bottom of the screen.
Ryder gave Isobel a gentle motion toward the kitchen island. She slipped onto one of the wide-backed stools, her fingers brushing the polished edge of the marble counter, and he took the seat opposite her, the distance between them both close and impossibly far.
“So, Isobel,” he began, his voice a low blend of Tennessee drawl and Manhattan steel, “how’ve things been?”
“Really well,” she said, a quiet smile touching her lips. “Today was the last day of school for
