Page 15 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

I practically crash through the bar’s front door like I’m being chased.

My heart’s thudding in my chest, my breath coming in jagged, desperate gasps. The cool Portree air smacks me in the face, but it’s not enough to calm the fire blazing under my skin. I need to move. I need to get away. Now.

I run.

Back through the winding streets, my heels clacking against the pavement, my body thrumming with adrenaline, heat and confusion.

When I get back to the motel, my feet hurt, my head’s spinning, and the wine I ordered is already whispering sweet nothings from the nightstand.

I dial Brè’s number, and she answers on the second ring like she somehow already knows I’m spiraling.

Holding the phone to my ear, I collapse onto the bed, cradling the wine bottle like it’s a therapy dog.

“Well, you sound like a woman who just committed a felony,” she purrs, her voice smooth and low, like she’s calling from a velvet couch in a silk robe.

“I kissed someone!” I blurt out.

Silence—then a delighted shriek that makes me wince and laugh at the same time.

“You kissed a cowboy?! Where? When? She exclaims.

“Not just any cowboy…I kissed…Grant Taylor” I groan out dropping my head into my hands.

Brè gasps so dramatically I can hear her clutching her invisible pearls through the phone. “Mia Bonney… You kissed Grant Taylor?! As in the cowboy of the South?” she exclaims.

I wince, but she barrels on, absolutely delighted with this news.

“Oh, I can just imagine it! You’re in a tiny country town, wait—no, don’t tell me anything—let me guess where it all went down” She’s practically vibrating with excitement now.

“In a field of wildflowers? Under a romantic moonlit sky, cicadas singing, maybe a distant fiddle playing romantic love notes softly in the background?” She’s breathless, already lost, building the scene of pure romance.

I cringe so hard my heart sinks into my stomach and I slap the heel of my palm to my forehead with a groan. “The men’s bathroom,” I mutter. “At the Whisky Barrel.”

Silence.

Then—

“DEAD!” Brè screeches. “Oh, baby girl,” she says with full reverence. “Now that’s the kind of filth I live for. I'm so proud I could cry. Please tell me you defiled something. Tell me everything. Spare no filth.”

“Brè.” I groan.

“No, really. The juxtaposition? Chef’s kiss. You? Miss 'I don’t do country'? Getting tongue-swiped by a cowboy next to a urinal? It’s like a Hallmark movie… but written by Martin Scorsese on a Red Bull bender.”

“Ewww!” I winch “And no, nothing got defiled, well, at least, I don’t know what I looked like after he went down on me.” I groan, flopping onto the bed.

“He went downtown on you in the restroom?” She yells down the line so loud, I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

“Yes!” I groan “and it was…God, it was so intense. Like, brain-melting good. Like I forgot my own name kinda good.”

I lay back on the bed.

The memory of Grant’s mouth on me, his hands gripping my thighs, the raw hunger in his kiss playing through my mind—I can still feel every inch of it.

The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in this world.

Like he needed me. Like I was his. And I…

I didn’t stop it. I didn’t want to stop it. Not even a little.

“Honey, you didn’t just forget your name, Mia. You lost your passport, your wallet, and possibly your mind.”

“I panicked, Brè. After…I…I ran.” I stammer out the words.

“Of course you did. That’s your Olympic event, isn’t it? Emotional avoidance 100-meter dash.”

I sigh. “I just needed air.”

“From his mouth or the atmosphere? Because from where I’m standing, you sound winded, not wounded.”

I’m quiet for a beat, staring at the ceiling like it’s got the answers.

“I liked it, Brè. More than I should.”

Brè softens, her voice dropping into her rare, quieter tone. “So what now? You just gonna drink wine in that motel room and wallow like you’re starring in a country music video?”

“Actually, yes. That’s the plan.”

She clicks her tongue. “I was going to ask what you think of Portree, but clearly it’s working overtime to ruin your emotional firewall.”

I blink. “Honestly? It’s not half bad here.” I groan, disbelieving of the words currently leaving my mouth. “It’s slow. It’s weird. But… it’s...nice.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end.

“You? Liking a town without sushi or same-day delivery?” The disbelief apparent in Brè’s voice.

“I know. I’m disturbed too.”

“Well, then stay.” She says it like it’s no big deal.

I sit up. “What?”

“Stay longer. Take a beat. Lick your wounds. Lick something else if the mood strikes.”

“Brè—”

“I’m serious. You don’t have your bank cards, your ID, your passport—you got tongue fucked by the local hero—you’re already legally a Portree resident at this point.”

I snort. “And how exactly am I supposed to survive here without those things?”

She laughs. “Oh please,” Brè drawls, her voice smug enough to file its own tax bracket.

“I’ve already emailed the U.S. Department of State.

Everything is getting sorted. You’ll have you’re temporary ID in no time—because I have a very flexible fling who works in foreign affairs.

And your replacement bank cards? Well, they will issued within the next ten days by the bank, courtesy of another highly cooperative fling, who happens to be their CEO. ”

I blink. “Are you kidding me?” I say in disbelief.

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?” she says in her most smug voice, like she’s adjusting a diamond ring just to make a point “Darling, I didn’t survive my ex, three corporate restructures, and that HR scandal of 2019 without developing a very particular set of skills.

Strategic dating, babe. It's like LinkedIn, but with orgasms.

“And you’re welcome.” She chimes.

I let out a breathy laugh, rubbing my temple. “Brè, thank you , thank you. I can’t thank you enough! You are... hands down... my most hormonally resourceful friend. Like, if espionage and lust had a baby—it’d be you.”

“Damn right it would.” She practically beams through the phone. “I’m not here to inspire envy darling, I’m here to get shit done. ” she says proudly.

“Now pour yourself another glass of wine and enjoy your stay, while you keep thanking your girl for being the horny little fairy godmother you never knew you needed.”

I exhale hard. “I’m not staying, you know.”

“Sure. And I’m celibate,” she snorts not skipping a beat. “Mia, let the town ruin you a little. Let the man ruin you a lot. You’ve earned it.” She says with an almost motherly tone.

“You’re a terrible influence.” I huff.

“I’m the best influence darling. The one who sends wine, not judgment. And let’s be real—you didn’t call me because you’re leaving. You called me because you don’t want to go.”

My chest pinches tight.

She’s not wrong. This dusty little town has its hooks in me from the moment I drove in—maybe it’s the drinking water, maybe it’s the river that sings at night, the sky that looks too wide to be real…

.or maybe it’s—nope, it’s definitely not Grant Taylor, and it’s definitely not that stupid, heart stopping grin of his, or that dark look of pure lust in his eyes when his tongue moves between my thighs, or his dirty, filthy words that flow out of his delicious mouth so effortlessly, sending me over the edge straight into bliss town.

Nope, definitely; definitely not Grant Taylor.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper, but the words tremble with a truth I’m no longer sure I can outrun.

Brè lets out a sigh “Well, as in control as you always appear, you never do,” she says gently. “But you always figure it out. And if it includes a cowboy with too much chest and not enough shirt, I support that journey.”

I let out a groan, covering my eyes with my hands. “I kissed him, Brè. And then I told him it was a mistake.”

She sighs, long and disappointed. “Girl, you just committed emotional fraud.”

I not through the ache in my chest although she can’t see me.

“I’m a disaster.”

“You’re my disaster. Now finish your wine, take a long shower, and let your poor coochie recover from the whiplash. Text me in the morning.”

“You’re the absolute best Brè.”

“And you’re the hottest mess I know. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

As I hang up, the room finally starts to settle around me. My pulse slows. My limbs uncoil. The wine warms my blood and my mind inevitably drifts back to Grant and that kiss.

That kiss…

The one that is now seared into my memory.

And it all shifted the second my phone buzzed—like a splash of ice water to the chest.

Annie’s message still glows at the top of my screen:

Annie: “So sorry!! Can't make it tonight! My colleague called in sick and I’m having to cover for her now. Rain check?”

That was it. The match strike.

Relief and disappointment slammed into me at the same time—two wildly opposing forces that left me breathless. Because deep down, I knew exactly what that message was:

An exit strategy. A parachute.

A neatly wrapped excuse to retreat before I drowned in something I wasn’t ready for.

Things with Grant weren’t just flirtation anymore. They were spiraling into something hotter, deeper, more dangerous.

I can still see the hurt in his eyes when I said it was a mistake. That look? That’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

I’ve spent years perfecting the art of leaving before I can be left. Before someone gets close enough to hurt me. I’ve built walls so high they’ve become instinct like protection against caring too much, wanting too much. Because wanting opens the door to heartbreak.

And Grant Taylor? He was already getting under my skin.

So I ran.

Because it was easier. Safer. Familiar.

But now, alone with a half-drunk bottle of wine and the taste of him still on my lips, I’m not so sure anymore.

…because for the first time in a long damn time…

Running doesn’t feel like protection.

It feels like resistance.

Like I’m swimming against a current I don’t have the strength to fight anymore.

But I will.

I have to.

I mean, I’m not even staying in Portree.

I’m not going back to Wellington, so I wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him at the PR Agency. And Grant Taylor? Please. I’ll have Brè find me an Airbnb far enough out of town I’ll need a compass and two donkeys to get back.

In the meantime, I’ll write a few articles—maybe one about how fresh air is apparently a gateway drug for making out in restrooms—enjoy the weird novelty of a peaceful landscape, pretend I don’t like it, and get back to my real life.

The one with chlorinated pool lanes, early morning call times, and medals waiting for my name to be called.

I’ll be rested. Recharged. Ready to dive back into Olympic training with focused tunnel vision and zero distractions.

This was nothing more than a blip. A blip with biceps and a voice that made my spine arch on instinct. But still—a blip.

It meant nothing.

Just one night. One kiss. One cowboy.

Whatever that… moment was between Grant and me? It’s over. Done. A spark in a storm that fizzled the second I walked out that bar door.

I won’t see him again.

And honestly? That’s for the best.

Because guys like Grant Taylor? They’re dangerous. They crack things open. Things I’ve spent years nail gluing shut. Things like desire. And comfort. And being seen.

And I don’t want to be seen.

I want control. Distance. Predictability.

I want anything but him.

So I’m fine. I’m so fine. Everything’s so, so fine.

I take the last sip of my wine, slip into my silky pj’s and click off the bedside lamp, sliding under the sheets with the self- satisfaction of a woman who has definitely made up her mind and will absolutely not second-guess any of it.

Except…

When I close my eyes, it’s not peace I find.

It’s hazel brown eyes that burn like summer storms. That small, crooked smirk that kicks my stomach into somersaults. The brush of scruff on my neck. The warmth of his palm against my cheek. Those low, wreck-me murmurs that settle deep in my bones.

And in my dreams, I don’t run.

In my dreams, I stay.

Wrapped in cowboy arms.

Held by strong hands.

Kissed by a man who looked at me like I was something irreplaceable.

So yeah.

This was just a one-time thing.

Definitely.

Absolutely.

Probably.