Page 16 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

I slam the truck door harder than necessary, the sound echoing in the quiet night. My hands are still shaking, and my lips burn with the memory of Mia's taste. What the hell just happened?

One minute we were kissing—really kissing—like my whole body was on fire, and the next she was gone, leaving nothing but the ghost of her touch and the scent of her perfume on my shirt.

“Dammit,” I mutter, stalking into my house and tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter.

I grab a beer from the fridge, twist the cap off, and take a long pull. The cold liquid does nothing to cool the heat still coursing through my veins.

I've kissed plenty of women, but none of them left me feeling like this—unmoored, desperate, like I can't catch my breath.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Mason.

I swipe to answer and grunt, “What?”

“Damn,” Mason says with a laugh. “That your sexy voice, or are you just cranky ‘cause you finally got rejected for once?”

“I didn’t get rejected,” I mutter, even though it sounds like a lie even to me.

“You disappeared from your own bar, man. You left your drink. You never leave your drink. Everything okay?”

I consider lying, but what's the point? Mason has an uncanny ability to see right through my bullshit ever since we were kids.

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “I kissed her.”

A pause. “Who?”

“Mia.”

Mason whistles low. “The yoga girl?”

“The one and only.” I say as I walk down the hall to my bedroom.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to make a move outside the arena.”

“Well, I did. And then she bolted. Again.”

Mason's low whistle carries through the phone. “She's got you twisted up, huh?”

“I'm not twisted up,” I protest, though the tightness in my chest says otherwise.

“Sure,” he says, not believing me for a second. “That's why you sound like you want to punch something.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I don't know what it is about her, Mason. She's... different.”

“Different how?”

“She doesn’t look at me like I’m some walking sex fantasy or ranch paycheck. She looks at me like…” I trail off.

“Like she sees the man, not the brand,” Mason finishes for me, his voice unusually soft.

“Yeah. That.”

There’s a beat of silence between us.

“Scary shit,” Mason says with surprising sincerity.

“Terrifying,” I agree, finishing my beer in one long swallow.

“Maybe that's why she ran,” he suggests. “Maybe she's as scared of feeling something, as you are.”

I hadn't considered that. “Maybe.”

There’s a long silence between us.

Another pause, then Mason clears his throat. “So… your mom’s birthday dinner on Wednesday. Still on?”

“Yep.”

“You bringing a date?”

I laugh without humor. “Nope. You?”

“Hell no. I gave up dating after that kindergarten teacher made me do breathwork under the full moon and then cried because I didn’t believe our souls had met in Atlantis.”

“…What?”

“Exactly. I’m safer alone.”

“Sounds like your type.” I chuckle.

“Hey, she had great boobs, but a terrible grip on reality. A man’s gotta learn somehow.”

I chuckle, the first real laugh since Mia ran out the bar like her heels were on fire.

There’s a pause between us when Mason clears his throat.

“All I’m saying is, the dating pool’s more like a dating swamp these days.

So if you find someone who makes your pulse do somethin’ other than flatline—don't let her get away.”

“What do you expect me to do? Lasso her like a calf the next time I see her?”

“Well, you’ve practiced enough at rodeos,” he says with a shrug I can hear. “Rope is kinda your thing right?”

“Pretty sure you’re confusing me with Connor and his weird barn kinks.”

“Hey, I’m not here to judge. I’m just saying, rope’s versatile.” He lets out low a chuckle.

“Shut up.”

“Just don't be a dumbass. If she’s under your skin, that means she matters. Do somethin’ about it.”

“Yeah, thanks for the emotional pep talk, Oprah.” I mutter.

“Don’t forget the dinner. And maybe leave the lovesick eyes at home.

Your Dad sees you looking like you just wrote a country song about a woman you barely know, he’s gonna stage an intervention.”

“Go to bed, Mason.”

“I will. Right after I picture you writing ‘Dear Diary, today she almost kissed me back.’” he chuckles down the line.

“Goodnight, asshole.”

“Night, Romeo.”

I hang up and toss my phone on the mattress.

Then I drag myself into the bathroom, turn the shower all the way to Arctic Death, and stand there like it’ll freeze the memory of her out of me.

It doesn’t.

Later, I’m lying in bed, sheets kicked down, pillow over my eyes, but my brain won’t quit.

I see her lips, bruised from our kiss. The way she gasped when I touched her, the soft sound she made when I drew the kiss slow down her neck.

Her voice, shaking when she said it was a mistake—not because she meant it.

But because she didn’t.