Page 11 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

My fixed point becomes the wall directly ahead, deliberately avoiding the six-foot-something cowboy whose mat is inexplicably next to mine. The universe clearly hates me.

“Lift your right foot and place it against your inner thigh,” Annie continues.

I comply, shifting my weight easily. This is basic. I've done yoga for years as cross-training for swimming.

“Now raise your arms overhead and find your center.”

My center is just fine until Grant Taylor lets out a small groan as he attempts to balance on one leg. The sound travels straight through me, triggering memories of his deep voice from yesterday. I make the fatal mistake of glancing over.

Grant's face is flushed with exertion, his t-shirt clinging to broad shoulders that strain against the fabric. Those arms? They could ruin my entire lineage. His eyebrows furrow in concentration, and a bead of sweat traces the strong line of his jaw before disappearing beneath his collar.

I try to stay focused on my breathing. I do.

“Just breathe, keeping a steady balance.” Annie murmurs.

I've always prided myself on balance. Whether navigating treacherous mountain paths in Nepal or slicing through Olympic-sized pools, my body has never betrayed me.

Until now.

I glance over at Grant and my foot betrays me. Slips right off my leg. Like a goddamn cartoon character on a banana peel.

The world tilts in slow motion. I flail, arms windmilling uselessly as I crash sideways.

Directly, into him.

His reflexes are surprisingly quick—his arms shoot out to catch me, but the movement also throws off his already precarious balance. We collapse in a tangle of limbs, gravity’s final “screw you” landing me right in his lap.

Full ass-to-cowboy-crotch contact and I swear I can feel every square inch of him—muscle, heat, trouble.

Oh. Oh no .

His arms lock around my waist, hot and strong. The position is mortifyingly intimate. He leans in, breath brushing my ear. “If you wanted to sit in my lap, darlin’, all you had to do was ask,” he murmurs against my ear, voice so low and full of smoke it should be classified as a controlled burn.

Oh for the love of—NOPE.

I squirm, but his hands hold me steady. “Let me go,” I whisper hiss, painfully aware of the curious eyes watching us. His grip eases, but he doesn’t release me.

“Yup, it’s official.”He southern drawls, voice low enough that only I can hear. “You’ve fallen for me, darlin’ and you’ll keep following me to the ends of the earth, even through hell…given where we are.” Sporting a shit eating grin, I can feel against my neck.

There’s a shift in the air—the kind that makes your skin buzz and your lungs forget how to function properly.

The comment throws me. It's not just flirtatious—there's an intensity behind it that makes my chest tighten.

I freeze.

The nerve. The unholy audacity .

His voice is too casual. His tone? Infuriating. His hands? Still. On. Me.

I suddenly realize exactly where I’m sitting—more like perched, awkwardly—on his lap. And worse, I feel… things. Things that are currently hard, pressed against my ass, and entirely inappropriate given we’re surrounded by middle-aged women in matching Lycra.

My cheeks flush red when I feel his rock hard cock pressed up against me.

He leans closer, lips nearly brushing my ear. “I think you're the only woman I've ever met who makes falling look graceful.”

Heat floods my face. With his chest pressed against my back, I swear the man is a walking furnace.

My entire body buzzes from the contact, and not in a cute way. In a this-man-is-going-to-be-the-death-of-me way.

“I..uh..I.. just don’t do land exercises well” I blurt out.

What am I saying?!

My face is flaming. And not just from embarrassment. From irritation, attraction, and the fact that my nipples have decided now is the time to become social butterflies through my top.

Fantastic.

“Stop holding me against my will.” I snap, desperate to salvage any power here as I turn my head towards him.

He chuckles— chuckles, the absolute gall —right into my ear and looks entirely too smug. “Pretty sure I’m not even touching you darlin’. You’re the one clutchin’ my thighs like your life depends on it.”

I look down. He’s not. The bastard is sitting there, hands in full surrender to his sides, while I’m the one grinding on him like it’s amateur hour at a mechanical bull bar.

I’M THE PROBLEM.

One hand’s on his thigh. The other? Oh cool, just wrapped around his knee like I’m auditioning for the clingiest koala on earth.

Oh.

Oh!

I yank my hands off his thigh like it’s on fire and scramble to get off him, but the mat betrays me. My foot slips, I turn and this time my face ends up an inch from his, my breasts pressed into his chest as he watches the whole scene like it’s better than any Netflix show.

My eyes meet his hazel orbs and my breath catches.

I hate that he notices it. I hate that I notice how my body reacts to him—all heat and nerve endings and one very inconvenient pulse between my thighs.

His mouth quirks up into that wicked, lopsided grin. “If this is you resisting, I can’t wait to see what surrender looks like.”

Oh no. Nope. Absolutely not.

“Oh my God, Grant” I huff.

And then, because the universe has a sick sense of humor, he leans in and murmurs right against my ear, “Reckon you oughta be more careful, angel. Keep fallin’ into my lap like this, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you like it here.”

I shoot up, almost kneeing him in the crotch as I rear back, stumbling backward, words spilling out of my mouth without brain permission.

“Sorry,” I mutter to Annie at the front of the class, to the class, to anyone but Grant. “I..uh..I..need some air.”

I flee the studio without looking back, grabbing my belongings and ignoring Annie's concerned “Mia? Are you okay?”

“Try fallin’ for me in private next time, angel,” he calls after me.

I flip him off without looking back and flee the studio, internally screaming louder than a toddler at nap time.

Outside, the early morning sun feels like an interrogation spotlight. I gulp the humid Texas air, trying to steady my pounding heart.

What is wrong with me?

I don’t get flustered. I don’t run. I don’t lose control of a situation—or my bodily functions. But here I am, panting outside a yoga studio like I’ve just escaped a hostage situation... with a cowboy-shaped problem stamped across my frontal lobe.

I’ve never reacted to a man like this. Ever.

Not since… well. No, not even then . And believe me, I’ve had my share of awkward moments.

Once I sneezed in the middle of a live broadcast interview.

And not a dainty little a c hoo —oh no, my sneezes are apocalyptic.

Biblical. You’d understand the trauma if you’d seen the teleprompter fly off the table and the producer waving his hands to cut to commercial.

But this ? This was worse.

It’s the way my body hums from where he touched me.

It’s the way my heart stutters when he looks at me like I’m both a problem and a prize.

And the worst part?

I hate that I want him to do it again.