Isla sat curled up in the oversized armchair by her window, a half-filled glass of elderberry wine dangling loosely between her fingers. The rich, slightly tart taste lingered on her tongue, a gift from Dottie—a homemade remedy for stress, or so she’d claimed. She wasn’t sure it was working.
The air outside was warm, the desert evening settling into a comfortable hush, but her mind was anything but quiet.
She exhaled sharply, continuing to roll the stem of the wineglass between her fingers. She had been stewing in her thoughts for days now, ever since she’d seen that damn PR statement. It wasn’t even that Nathan Hayes had said anything outright insulting—it was the condescending way it had been framed. The ‘gracious’ acceptance of her supposed decline, the way it made her look like she w
