Page 10 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Lily blows us kisses as she heads for the door. “By the way, Grant, those yoga pants Mason dropped off are on your bed. See you tomorrow bright and early!”

The door slams shut behind her before I can respond.

“Mason brought yoga pants?” Christian doubles over laughing.

“I'm gonna to kill them both,” I mutter, though there's no real heat behind it. My family's relentless teasing is just their way of showing love.

After Christian leaves with the donuts safely boxed up, I find myself alone in the quiet house. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. I wander onto the back porch, beer in hand, and settle into the rocking chair that used to be my grandfather's.

From here, I can see most of the Taylor family ranch—the barn where I learned to ride, the corral where Jake fell off his first horse, the distant tree line where we used to play hide and seek as kids. This land is in my blood, has shaped everything I am.

So why does it sometimes feel like a trap?

I take a long pull from my beer, my thoughts drifting to Mia. The way she looked at me like I was just a man, not a legacy. Not Grant Taylor, rodeo champion and Taylor heir. Just a guy who happened to pick up her underwear in a store.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mason.

Mason: Hope you like the pants brother. Want me to come for moral support?

Me: Touch my shoulder during class and die.

His response comes immediately.

Mason: Wouldn't dream of it. But seriously, Annie is a brutal instructor. Don't eat breakfast.

Great. Not only am I doing yoga, I'm doing it with Portree's toughest instructor. Thought yoga is supposed to be relaxing.

And half the town probably already has tickets to watch.

I finish my beer and head inside, curiosity getting the better of me.

In my bedroom, I find a package on my bed—black athletic pants and a t-shirt with “Namaste, Y'all” printed across the chest. A sticky note in Mason's handwriting says: “Dress for success.”

“Asshole,” I mutter, though I can't help laughing.

I toss the joke shirt aside but try on the pants. They're surprisingly comfortable, though I'd rather be caught dead than admit it.

Sleep eludes me that night. My shoulder throbs despite the pain meds, and my mind keeps circling back to a pair of intelligent blue eyes and a sharp tongue.

What is it about this woman that's gotten under my skin so quickly?

She's everything I usually avoid—city-smart, independent, probably thinks cowboys are a walking stereotype.

Yet I found myself calling the Sunset Motel to arrange her stay, making sure she had somewhere decent while stranded. I haven't done something like that for a stranger in... well, ever.

***

When my alarm blares at 6 AM, I seriously consider ignoring it. But the dull ache in my shoulder reminds me why I'm doing this. I've never backed down from a challenge, and I'm not starting now—even if that challenge involves stretchy pants and a room full of soccer moms.

The Portree Gym is practically empty when I arrive at 6:45, thankfully.

I slip into the studio at the back, choosing a spot in the far corner where I can make a quick escape if things get too weird.

The borrowed yoga mat feels foreign under my feet as I awkwardly stand there, wishing I were anywhere else.

A few women filter in, doing double-takes when they spot me. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, ignoring the whispers and giggles. This was a mistake. I should just increase my pain meds and—

“Well, this is unexpected.”

That voice. I know that voice. Her voice.

I look up, and there she is—Mia. In leggings so tight they must’ve been applied with a spatula, black and sleek and hugging every inch of her long, athletic legs.

And the top? Jesus. It’s basically a tank with ambition.

It clings to her like it’s proud of her shoulders.

Her hair’s pulled up in one of those messy buns that looks like it took zero effort and still somehow has every strand working overtime to destroy me.

And she’s got that sheen to her skin—like she’s already glistening before the warm-up has even started.

A drop of sweat slides down her collarbone, and I immediately forget every reason I came here.

The way she stands—confident, strong, completely in her element—makes my mouth go dry.

Her lips curve into that smug, knowing half-smile like she caught me red-handed dreaming about licking salt off her clavicle. Which, to be fair, I now am.

“I could say the same,” I manage to reply, though it comes out more like a croak than anything resembling words. My throat is suddenly parched. My body? Not parched. I’m as hard as the floor beneath my mat and praying to every spiritual yoga deity in the room that she doesn't notice.

She rolls out her mat right next to mine, all grace and ease and lemony-fresh scent. Then she bends over to adjust the edges, and I swear I see stars. Not in a romantic way. In a this-woman-is-gonna-give-me-a-stroke way.

My heart’s thudding like it’s about to file for harassment.

I am hard.

Very, very hard.

I growl my frustration.

And then Annie walks in going to stand at her instructor spot at the front of the class—who smiles and says, “Good morning everyone. Let’s start by grounding ourselves in the present moment.”

Woman, I am grounded. Grounded in panic, lust, and the very real fear that downward dog is going to expose me as fully, irreversibly erect.

Mia sits, crosses her legs, and breathes deeply like she’s meditating on world peace while I sit cross-legged beside her, trying to meditate on anything but her ass.

She glances sideways at me, eyebrows raised. “You okay, cowboy? You look a bit tense there.”

Tense? Tense is a word for taxes.

I’m about three exhalations away from combusting.

“Yeah,” I say, voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old. “Just, uh... centered.”

She bites back a laugh. I can see it twitching in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flicker downward toward my lap— Jesus take the wheel —before darting back up to my face, full of amusement.

“You sure about that?” she murmurs, leaning in close enough for her breath to brush my neck.

Nope. I am not sure. I am fairly certain I am going to die in this yoga studio. Right here. Right now. With a hard-on, red faced and on a mat that smells like the inside of a zen garden’s armpit.

This class hasn’t even started, and I already know two things:

I am not making it through sixty minutes of flexible positions and deep breathing with her this close.

Malan and his damn yoga prescription can go straight to hell.

Namaste my ass.