Page 12 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

I spend the rest of the day hiding in my motel room, furiously typing a travel piece about Maine from memory. Anything to avoid thinking about that moment in yoga class. About him.

By evening, I'm climbing the walls.

My phone pings with a text from Annie, whom I’m grateful I went and introduced myself to before class and exchanged numbers with after awkwardly apologizing for disrupting her class session:

Annie : “Drinks at The Whisky Barrell tonight? 8PM? Us girls gotta stick together!”

Perfect. Exactly what I need—alcohol and conversation with someone who isn't a frustratingly attractive cowboy.

Me: “Count me in!”

The Whisky Barrel is packed when I arrive, the Friday night crowd spilling onto the wooden deck outside. Country music thrums through speakers, and the smell of beer and whiskey hangs in the air. The crowd is loud and there’s enough denim and cowboy hats in here to warrant its own rodeo.

My little black dress clings like a second skin—low at the back, high at the hem, with a teasing dip at the neckline that’s barely legal and entirely intentional. It’s elegant. It’s sinful. It’s a walking contradiction, much like me.

My brown waves fall loose over one shoulder, tousled like I didn’t spend twenty minutes perfecting the mess. And these boots? Polished, pointed, and made for stepping over lines.

I don’t blend in.

I don’t plan to.

Scanning the room for Annie, I see no sign of her petite frame.

Just then my phone buzzes.

Annie: “Sorry, running late. Start without me! Order the Tumbleweed—it's amazing.”

Great. I shove my phone back into my bag and push my way to the bar, squeezing between two men arguing about cattle prices. The only open seat is at the far end, next to a broad-shouldered figure in a familiar cowboy hat.

Because of course it is.

I consider leaving—I really do—but stubbornness wins out.

I refuse to let Grant Taylor dictate where I can go in this tiny town.

Sliding onto the barstool, deliberately not looking his way.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

“I’ve been told the Tumbleweed is good here”

The bartender looks confused. “The what now?”

“Um, a Tumbleweed? Annie recommended it.”

I feel heat on my skin from the eyes of the man next to me.

Recognition dawns on the bartender’s face. “Oh, that's not on the menu. That's just something I make for Annie.” He leans closer. “Honestly, it's pretty strong. Not everyone's cup of tea.”

“I'll have what the lady's having,” Grant's voice cuts in before I can respond.

The bartender grins. “Coming right up, boss.”

Grant turns his body to me then, and the full force of his attention hits like a physical blow. His eyes are deep amber in the bar's dim lighting, crinkling slightly at the corners.

“Fancy meeting you here, Mia-not-from-around-here.”

“Are you following me now?” I ask, trying for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to breathless.

“I own part of this place,” he says with a shrug. “Co-investment with my best friend Mason…so technically, yet again you're following me.” There’s a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, the beginnings of a smirk that feels more like a threat than a greeting.

I let out a laugh, just as the bartender returns with two electric blue cocktails garnished with what looks like cotton candy.

“Annie's special,” he says with a wink as he walks away.

I take a tentative sip and nearly choke. It's sweet at first, then hits with an alcohol punch that burns all the way down.

“Holy shit,” I sputter. “What's in this?”

“Family secret,” Grant says, taking a much more confident sip of his own. “Careful. These have a reputation for leading to bad decisions.” he winks.

He’s leaning against the bar like sin incarnate, forearms resting on the wood, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that does dangerous things to my pulse.

He looks like he belongs in this bar, in this town, in this world.

That black button-up shirt molds to his torso like it was tailored for worship, the open collar revealing just enough tan skin to have my brain taking a lie-down.

And the hat— that wide-brimmed cowboy hat—casts a shadow over those smoldering brown eyes that are currently locked on me like a hunter who just spotted his prey.

Heat uncoils low in my belly, curling like smoke. My thighs press instinctively together. Every nerve in my body fires with acute awareness of him and I can't look away. The noise of the bar fades to background static and there's just him and me and this strange, undeniable pull.

I clear my throat. “You always look at strangers like you’re trying to figure out their tragic backstory?” I say without breaking eye contact from him.

Grant chuckles, low and warm. “Nah. Just the ones who walk in like a hurricane and pretend they’re just passing through.”

His voice is low and unhurried, but it lands like a punch. Right in the center of my carefully-constructed, sarcasm-plated armor.

My smile falters, just a breath. Just enough for him to see it.

I roll my eyes and take another sip of my drink, letting the burn stall the rising heat in my chest. “Well, aren’t you poetic,” I murmur. “Tell me, do you practice these lines in the mirror, or do they just fall out of that cocky mouth on instinct?”

Grant grins, all teeth and shameless confidence. “Instinct, sweetheart. It’s a gift. Can’t help it.”

He leans his forearms on the bar, turning just slightly toward me. The distance between us too small now. Intimate. Unwise.

I take another sip. “Well then, do you always flirt like you're trying to distract someone from asking real questions?”

That gets a flicker in his gaze—an almost-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Takes one to know one,” he says, deflecting like a pro. “Where you from, Mia?” His dark brown eyes burn through me as he studies my response.

Shifting in my seat, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the condensation trailing down the side of my glass, the way the bar stool squeaks beneath me when I cross one leg over the other. Not entirely comfortable, but not exactly ready to lie either.

“Cold Springs,” I say eventually, tracing the rim of my glass with one fingertip. “Small town. Mountains. The kind of place where everyone knows your middle name, your curfew, and your crush by fifth grade.”

Grant lifts a brow. “Cold Springs, huh? Sounds peaceful.”

“Peaceful if you’re a golden retriever,” I mutter. “Not so much if you're a girl with a brain, a smart mouth, and dreams that didn't involve marrying the quarterback and running the PTA bake sale.”

“What did you run from—Cold Springs or someone in it?”

My fingers tighten slightly around the glass, taken off guard by his line of questioning. The right thing to do here is laugh it off. Make a joke. Pivot. Throw his question back in his smug, handsome face.

But something about the way he’s looking at me… makes it hard to lie.

So I exhale, slow and shallow. “My father,” I say, surprising even myself. “He was… suffocating.”

I clear my throat “But then I escaped to the Big Apple,” I nod, finishing the last of my drink and letting the buzz settle low and warm in my belly. “Straight into chaos. Noise. Sirens. Rent that costs a kidney and a pinky toe.”

He leans in, just a little. “That’s a hell of a leap. Most folks are running from the city, not to it.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, eyes fixed on the way the bar lights glint off the rim of his glass. “Small towns can be just as loud—you just hear the noise in your own head instead. The city was... less personal.”

Grant doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel his eyes on me—measured, curious, like I’ve become the puzzle he wants to solve.

Grant laughs, but his gaze is steady. “You seem like someone who’s good at running. But bad at resting.”

That lands too close to home. I drop my gaze to my drink.

“Maybe,” I admit quietly.

Grant doesn’t speak. Doesn’t press. Just watches me like I’ve handed him a fragile thing, and he’s choosing—carefully—not to break it.

He leans in slightly, his voice lower. “You can tell a lot about someone by the way they show up when no one’s watching.”

I blink at him. That…was unexpected.

“And how exactly have I shown up, cowboy?” I ask, my voice softer now.

He smiles, slow and deliberate. “Like someone who wants to believe in something again but doesn’t quite trust herself to do it.”

Goddamn. I hate how much that hits. I hate how seen I feel.

“You’re annoyingly insightful,” I mutter, trying not to let it show how rattled I am.

“I’m a middle child. It’s my survival skill.”

That makes me laugh—actually laugh—and it feels good. Natural.

I finally meet his gaze again. “What about you, Grant Taylor? What’s your tragic backstory?”

He shrugs, eyes dropping to his drink, then back up to me. “My story’s a little quieter. Grew up too fast. Took on more than I should’ve. Lost some things I wasn’t ready to lose. Still figuring out who I am when no one’s looking.”

“Well damn. I was expecting something simple, like a tragic haircut, getting trampled by wild horses or a traumatizing rodeo incident.” The words flying out, before I can stop myself.

He lets out a low chuckle. “Nah, don’t break in wild horses anymore. Just stubborn women who talk too much and pretend they don’t want me to.”

Oh dear God .

And, oh look, the pulse between my legs does have a heartbeat of its own.

I clear my throat, desperate for oxygen and dignity, squeezing my thighs together—a movement he seems to track—as I feel the blush rushing up my neck.

“Ha! Well…thank God for evolution,” I say, voice dry. “Because now you can skip the rodeo and just traumatize women directly.”

His eyes spark with something—amusement, interest, damnation, who knows—and I instantly regret giving him that much to work with.

He leans back a little, like he’s giving me space, but that grin? That grin is still sitting on me like it pays rent.

God, he probably wasn’t even talking about me.