The Oklahoma morning was just rubbing the sleep from its eyes, light stretching slow across the stadium lot. The air was laced with the scent of strong coffee and hay, the shuffle of boots on gravel, and the soft clink of tack being readied.
Isobel stepped out from Bella Rose’s trailer, the brisk air curling around her like a cat. She rounded the corner and found Ryder in front of his own rig, long and lean against the silver skin of the trailer, stretching his back with the easy grace of a man who’d spent half his life in the saddle and the other half in boardrooms.
“Good mornin’, beautiful,” he drawled—Southern warmth in the vowels, Manhattan steel just under the surface. He slipped an arm around her waist and brushed a kiss against her cheek, his scent a mix of leather, cedar, and the
