Isobel nursed her daiquiri in small, measured sips while Ryder tipped the neck of his longneck skyward and finished the beer in one swallow. He set it down with a muted thud, lifting his hand to catch the eye of a passing waitress. A small flick of his fingers—precise, practiced—was all it took to signal for another round.
He leaned toward her, hand brushing over hers, his voice pitched above the music's thrum. "You havin' a good time?"
"Yes. Thank you for inviting us," she said, her words almost lost in the twang of the steel guitar.
His gaze skimmed the room, scanning for the waitress like a man used to reading both cattle pens and crowded boardrooms. When he didn't spot her, he rose, the legs of his chair dragging lightly over the worn wood. "Be right back—gonna grab another beer. You need anything?"
She lifted her glass in a small gesture. "No, thank you. I'm good."
Ryder returned minutes later, balancing the drinks with easy efficiency—four longnecks in one hand, a fresh Bahama Mama for Bellarose in the other. Two beers slid across the table to Wren, the other pair staying in front of him.
The night unraveled in a warm blur—laughter tangled with the clink of glasses and the scuff of boots on hardwood. Ryder and Wren kept their beers coming, salt-rimmed tequila shots sliding into the mix. Between drinks, the men made their way back to the dance floor, where Bellarose roped Isobel into learning the Cowboy Cha Cha and the Watermelon Crawl, the two of them spinning and laughing beneath the neon glow.
"Fun yet?" Bellarose asked as they stepped off the floor, both catching their breath.
"Yes… it's fine," Isobel said, though her eyes told a more complicated truth.
Bellrose caught it. "Hey, boys—we're headin' to the little girls' room." She didn't wait for a reply, steering Isobel away from the music and crowd.
Once they reached the narrow hallway, Bellarose stopped, turning her friend gently but firmly. "Alright, sugar. Spill it. What's really goin' on?"
Isobel drew in a slow breath, exhaling like she was bracing herself for a jump. "I'm not sure about Ryder."
"What do you mean? He seems great."
"He drinks a lot—for starters. And when we danced that first time… he kissed me. Hard."
Bellrose's brows lifted. "I'm sorry, I don't see the problem there. You're gonna have to enlighten me."
"I don't know what his past looks like," Isobel said quietly, "but I get the feeling he's had his way with plenty of women… and expects me to be the same."
Bellrose shrugged, her tone softening. "Then tell him you wanna take it slow. My money says he'll understand."
Isobel shook her head, doubt in the motion. "I don't think he'll be game for that."
"You worry too much." Bellarose leaned toward the spotted mirror above the sink, swiping away a smudge of mascara before fluffing her braid with quick, sure fingers. "Let's get back out to the boys. Alright?"
"Sure." Isobel gave herself a quick once-over—lip color still in place, hair smoothed back into some semblance of order—then followed Rose into the warm thrum of the club.
Ryder's head lifted as soon as she came into view. His smile cut through the dim light, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes catching like sparks. Whatever her reservations had been, they softened at the sight of it. For tonight, she decided, she could put them down.
On the table sat a precarious pyramid of empty beer cans—fifteen by her quick count—while Ryder and Wren wrestled with the last one, their movements careful as a bull rider easing a rope into place before the gate. When it finally balanced, both men threw their arms skyward and let out a triumphant whoop that turned a few heads nearby.
Ryder leaned toward her, his words slow and syrupy, the edge of his Manhattan polish dulled by alcohol. "You're back." His head tipped a little too far, his gaze warm but unfocused. "You're so damn pretty," he murmured, his hand sliding under the hem of her dress toward her thigh.
Isobel caught his wrist, her grip firm. "Ryder, you're drunk. I think you need to go home."
He leaned back, lids half-shut, a lazy grin pulling at his mouth. "Shush. I'm not drunk—you're drunk."
"I haven't even finished my first drink," she said evenly.
He scraped his chair closer until it pressed against hers, the faint scent of tequila mixing with the clean spice of whatever cologne he'd chosen—a scent that didn't belong to the shelves of any small-town drugstore. He brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear with deliberate care. "You're beautiful," he whispered. "Your eyes are blue like the ocean."
When he leaned in, she turned her head just in time. The shift threw off his balance, and he tipped forward, landing against her with his weight gone slack.
"Ryder?" She shook his shoulder once, then again. Nothing. He was out cold.
With a sigh, she eased back in her chair, pulling his shoulders upright so his head rested in her lap instead of hanging dangerously low. In sleep, the tension smoothed from his face, leaving him looking younger, unguarded—like the boy he must have been before the bulls, before Manhattan skyscrapers and money that bought anything but peace.
Her fingers slipped into his hair, thick and warm, pushing it away from his closed eyes. His hat had slid to the floor when he fell; she bent, picked it up, and set it gently on the table.
Wren and Bellarose came striding back from the dance floor, cheeks flushed, boots tapping a last beat to the song still spinning in their heads—only to find Ryder slumped in his chair, head tipped like a man who'd been thrown and stayed down.
"What the hell happened?" Wren asked, eyes narrowing.
Isobel just pointed to the precarious pyramid of beer cans still glinting in the neon. "That happened."
Wren gave a low whistle. "Damn. Alright. I'll rustle up a couple boys to help get him out to the truck before he starts snorin' loud enough to scare the stock."
A few minutes later, Ryder was settled in the passenger seat of his own truck—hat on the dash, seatbelt snug across his chest. Even unconscious, he carried himself differently: his hands loose in his lap but with the faint tan line of an expensive watch visible under his cuff.
Isobel turned to Wren, holding out her hand, palm steady and expectant. "Keys."
He blinked. "What? Why?"
"Because Ryder's in no shape to drive—and neither are you." Her voice had that quiet firmness that didn't invite debate.
"She's right, Wren." Bellarose planted a hand on her hip, her tone all business. "Let her drive him home, and I'll haul your sorry hide back to your place."
Wren glanced between them, then shrugged like a man who knew better than to argue with two determined women. "Fine by me." He flipped the keys in her direction without looking, letting them hit the gravel at her boots.
Isobel stooped to pick them up, feeling the unexpected heft of the fob—sleek, metal-edged, nothing like the plastic ones she was used to. She slipped them into her hand without comment, but the detail lodged in her mind all the same.