She answered him at first, letting the moment sweep her, but as his kiss deepened, she broke away, breath uneven. Taking a small step back, she steadied herself.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was softer now, but the concern in his eyes was sharp—like a man reading a market shift before it crashes.
“I need a drink,” she said quietly. “Can we go back to the table for a while?”
“Of course.” The words carried no argument, only a measured calm. He took her hand again—not pulling, just guiding—and led her back toward the table, where Bellarose and Wren sat angled toward each other, their laughter hushed and their faces close enough to share secrets over the music.
Isobel nursed her daiquiri in small, measured sips while Ryder tipped the neck of his longneck skyward and finished the beer in one s
