Steam still clung to Ryder’s skin as he stepped out of the shower, dragging a towel across his shoulders. He wrapped it low around his hips, the muscles in his back catching the morning light through the blinds. Sliding open the pocket door, he stepped into the small living space of the trailer.
Isobel was by the stove, barefoot, her hair tumbling down her back, wearing nothing but one of his crisp dress shirts — the kind he usually reserved for Manhattan boardrooms, not stockyard kitchens.
Her head turned, catching his gaze. “Sorry. I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t find my clothes. Rose must’ve carried them off.”
Ryder’s mouth tugged into a slow smile. “Isobel, I don’t mind one damn bit. That shirt looks a hell of a lot better on you than it ever did on me.” He came up behind her, arm
