Page 13 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

He probably just charms women into spontaneously combusting wherever he goes. Like a walking Southern biohazard.

His mouth twitches, and there’s a glint in his eyes like he’s already halfway to figuring me out. “You always hide behind sarcasm, or is it just me that gets the spiky version?”

I take a slow sip of my drink, my gaze flicking to his over the rim. “Nah,” I say, voice light. “I’m just saving the warm and fuzzy side for people who don’t make me want to throw their cowboy hats into an open flame.” I say with a smirk.

That gets him. His grin spreads, slow and sinful. “Well now,” he drawls, that voice like aged whiskey and late-night trouble. “Didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you, darlin’.”

I scoff and look away, pretending to check out the crowd.

But the truth is, I’m rattled. Not by the words. But by the way he says them—like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t give him permission to see.

He has too much effect on me. That’s the problem…or maybe it’s the alcohol talking.

You’re had four sips, might want to try again Bonney.

I shift in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his knee brushes against mine, the way his voice sinks beneath my skin like it’s got history there.

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but my body’s already betraying me.

Heart racing. Involuntarily squeezing my thighs together.

Mouth a little too dry for someone who just took a drink.

I shoot him a sidelong glance, hoping he can’t read any of it on my face. “Careful,” I say, voice smooth but my fingers white-knuckling the glass. “You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you enjoy getting on my nerves.”

He leans in, and for one maddening second, his voice is just for me. “Who says I don’t?”

Damn him. Damn his voice. Damn this heat that’s pooling low in my stomach like it’s got plans and a playlist.

I laugh, sharper than it needs to be. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, “you’re still here.”

And I hate that he’s right.

Because I am still here.

Still sitting in this bar beside a man who makes me want to run and lean in and lick him all at once. A man who sees right through me with terrifying ease. And I can’t quite tell if I’m annoyed…or intrigued.

We sit in silence for a beat, just letting that hang between us. It’s not awkward—it’s intimate. Unexpected. A small flicker of connection sparking to life between us.

I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably in my seat before pivoting the line of questioning.

“Well, can I ask you a serious question?” I brave a look at him as he straightens up in his chair with true concern showing on his face, as he nods patiently waiting for me to continue.

“Okay…here it goes….” Biting my lip, pinching my brows together, I take a deep breath before saying “would you rather have to moan every time you eat something good or say “harder, daddy” every time you stretch?”

A bark of laughter explodes out of him through the bar and I swear it can be heard two counties over. The vibration of his laugh sends ripples of pleasure through my entire body.

He continues to laugh and laugh, wiping tears from his eyes and eventually the shaking of his shoulders ease as he shakes his head and leans back, crossing his arms with one brow arched seriously considering his answer.

“Darlin’,” he chuckles. “I’ll take the moaning.

Loud, shameless, borderline obscene—I don’t give a damn.

Better that than lettin’ the words ‘harder, daddy’ leave my mouth in another yoga class and risk Annie never lookin’ me in the eye again.

Besides…” he smirks “...I make eating look good. Might as well sound good too.”

The effect of his words have me squirming in my seat and I instantly get the impression we’re not talking about food anymore.

A prickle of pleasure runs over my skin and a tightness forms in my core—low, insistent, and completely inappropriate for public consumption.

Taking a sip from my drink, I’m relieved to take every bit of courage this blue liquid has to offer me.

He gives me a sly side grin, then straightens like he’s about to deliver a military briefing. “Alright, brace yourself,” he says, voice deadpan. “Would you rather date someone who talks during sex…or cries after?”

I choke on my drink mid-sip, coughing like I’ve been ambushed by tequila vapors.

“Are those my only options? No mute, emotionally-stable unicorn in the mix?”

He just shrugs his large shoulders and arches a brow waiting for my reply.

I sigh dramatically. “Oh fine. I’ll take the talker. As long as he’s not giving a TED Talk on his fantasy football league or reciting his grocery list, I can work with that. At least I can shut him up with my mouth.”

Grant’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a grin and is also very satisfied with my answer. I don’t let him off easy.

“But the crier?” I continue, making a face. “What do I do with that? Stroke his hair and whisper, ‘You did so good, buddy’? Hand him a Capri-Sun and an emotional support blanket? I’m not built for that kind of post-coital counselling!”

That grin finally breaks through. “So noted,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “No tears. Lots of shutting up. Got it.”

I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t a personal checklist, cowboy.”

“Didn’t say it was. Just... takin’ notes. For science.” He smirks.

“Alright” feeling almost desperate to draw another laugh out of him for reasons I’m not willing to analyze further, “so…would you rather fall in love with someone who’s terrible in bed, or someone amazing in bed, who’s terrible at literally everything else?

Grant shrugs, taking off his cowboy hat and putting it on the bar, then runs a hand through that just-rolled-outta-bed hair.

Oh sweet hell .

That hair—God, that hair—why does it have to be so .

.. tug-able? Like he just rolled out of bed after wrecking a few dreams and didn’t even bother checking a mirror, because why would he need to?

He was very much first in line when God handed out looks that day and gravity is clearly obsessed with him.

The way his fingers rake through it, all slow and careless, like he doesn’t even know what kind of power he’s wielding? It should be illegal. Or at the very least, taxed.

And now all I can think about is how it would feel to do that myself—slipping my hands into those thick strands, gripping them while he's saying something that has no business being that deep and that hot. My fingers curled in his hair while he leans in and—

Nope. Abort mission.

This is not a safe thought zone.

He continues, completely oblivious to my internal turmoil, his voice sounding low and deep.

“Look, I can teach someone how to saddle up proper—but I ain’t spendin’ my life babysittin’ a woman who thinks toaster strudel is a personality trait.

” He shrugs “so give me the girl who can’t ride but tries like hell.

That kinda heart? That’s worth the long game. ”

Focus, Mia. Words. He’s saying words. Something about heart and long games and oh no, now he’s smiling like that again and great—my ovaries just signed a lease.

“How many times have you practiced that ‘I’m not affected by cowboys’ face in the mirror?” he asks, his voice low and amused, like he already knows the answer.

I freeze. Damn it. Did I let something slip? Did I moan ? Did I just like— emote like some wide-eyed rodeo groupie?

He studies me a beat longer, something unreadable flickering behind those amber eyes. “Because right now, Princess, your face is saying a whole lot. ”

My cheeks ignite as I clear my throat. “Too many,” I mutter, swallowing the lump of pride in my throat.

“Which is wild really, considering it clearly doesn’t work.

I strutted into town thinking I was emotionally bulletproof—and now I flinch every time a cowboy tips his hat like he’s about to wreck my five-year plan.

So yeah, the face? Broken. Defective. Full-on emotional product recall. ”

He chuckles, low and husky, and then— slow and intentional—his eyes drop to my lips.

And, because I’m apparently a walking cautionary tale with zero self-preservation, mine drops to his and my tongue drags across my bottom lip like it’s acting on instinct, not sanity.

It’s not the drink. It’s not the music. It’s not even the damn hat.

It’s him. Just him. I’m so completely screwed.

And I’m so not ready for what that means. I break away first, dropping my gaze to my drink and in the same instance my brain decides now’s the perfect time for a vivid, absolutely filthy fantasy to crash into my mental inbox like an unsolicited dick pic from the universe.

The image—vivid and completely uninvited—slams into my brain like a sucker punch: Grant’s hands gripping my hips, spinning me into the bar as his mouth crashes onto mine.

The weight of him pressing me against the wood.

The rough drag of his palm up my thigh. My dress riding higher.

His voice, low and possessive, whispering filth against my neck.

I blink, struggling to breathe. My hands tighten around my glass. I shift, trying to ease the ache pooling between my legs, but it’s no use.

I shouldn’t be this turned on. Not by a guy who makes my blood boil one minute and my core clench the next. Not in the middle of a damn bar.

And yet, here I am.

When I look up again, his chair is empty.

I blink, confused. Did I imagine him? But no—his drink sits right there, half-finished.

A strange mix of emotions rush through me—relief, disappointment, something dangerously close to longing. It’s confusing as hell, and I don’t like it.

I exhale sharply and take another sip of my drink, letting the sharp, fruity burn settle my nerves before pushing back from the bar and head for the restroom, needing a moment to collect myself.

Pushing through the first door I see, the bathroom is mercifully empty and smells like someone went full war-time strategy with bleach. Every surface gleams like it’s auditioning for a cleaning product commercial. Even the mirror sparkles like it’s judging me in HD.

I lean against the counter, splashing cold water on my face and take out my phone to text Annie.

“Get it together, Bonney,” I muse silently to my reflection. “He's just a man. A stupidly attractive, surprisingly complex man who makes you feel things you haven't felt in ever. He’s just...” I trail off, closing my eyes.

“Grant,” I whisper, testing his name on my lips like a secret.

And just like that, the night takes a turn I didn’t see coming.