Like she’d always been part of this place.
He exhaled slowly.
This hadn’t just been Burke’s idea anymore.
Somewhere along the way, it had turned into something else.
The barn settled behind them in a low hum.
Grant stepped out into the cooling air.
“That should hold,” he said.
Izzy followed, towel in hand.
“For now,” she said. “Until something inevitably goes wrong.”
“Optimistic.”
“I’m realistic.”
They crossed the yard.
The barn glowed behind them now.
Izzy slowed, glancing back.
“It’s going to be good.”
Grant followed her gaze.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
* * *
Bridlepath Farm — Getting Ready
Grant stood in the kitchen, the silence of the house amplified by the distant thrum of the music already starting in the barn.
He’d spent twenty minutes fighting with the collar of a starched white button-down—the kind of heavy, pressed cotton that felt like a cage after a week in work coats. He checked his reflection, adjusted the brim of his best Stetson, and shoved his feet into his dress boots.
He was ready.
He just wasn’t sure he was ready for her.
He heard the click of heels against the hallway floor—a sharp, rhythmic sound that didn’t belong in a farmhouse.
Grant leaned against the counter, mug of black coffee in hand, and waited.
Then she stepped into the kitchen.
Grant’s heart didn’t just skip; it stalled.
Izzy wasn’t wearing a dress. She was in a dark teal silk jumpsuit that was, quite frankly, a liability to his concentration.
The strapless top hugged her curves with lethal precision, the silk straining just enough to highlight the honeyed skin of her shoulders and a deep, confident swell of cleavage that made Grant’s mouth go dry. The legs were wide and flowy, but every time she took a step, the high splits in the fabric flashed a long, toned stretch of leg that seemed to go on forever.
She was Italian royalty. Tall, leggy, and carrying herself with the kind of effortless confidence that usually made Grant want to head for the hills.
