Page 17 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

By morning, I've had maybe three hours of sleep and look like it as I drag myself to the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away this strange fixation. It doesn't.

I pull on my usual black button-up and worn-in Wranglers, rolling up the sleeves out of habit.

Boots come next—scuffed but dependable—followed by my Stetson, which settles on my head like it was always meant to be there.

A minute later, I’m in my truck, gravel crunching under the tires as I head down the road toward my parents’ place.

I spend the whole damn day distracted—dropping things, zoning out, messing up simple tasks I could do in my sleep. I damn near incinerate the steaks at lunch, and when I finally flip one over, the blackened underside curls in protest.

Get your shit together Taylor.

Dad watches me with narrowed eyes, arms folded, that quiet brand of suspicion only a father with too much free time and too much wisdom can master.

“You feeling alright there, son?” he asks, handing me a beer. “You look like hell warmed over.”

“Just tired,” I mutter, taking the bottle, twisting the cap off, but not meeting his gaze.

Dad gives me a look—the kind of look that says he’s been around long enough to smell bullshit from three counties over.

“Must be all that yoga,” he says, lips twitching and a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Heard it knocks a man’s balance clean outta his boots.”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Can we not do this today, Dad?”

“Do what?” Dad's eyes widen with mock innocence. “I was just thinking maybe you're becoming all zen and shit. Next thing we know, you’ll be growin’ your hair long, wearin’ a man bun, and talkin’ about your feelings.”

“Eric,” Mama chides, appearing on the patio with a pitcher of sweet tea and giving Dad that look—the one that says “You’re done now” but still somehow manages to be affectionate.

“Leave him alone. If yoga helps his shoulder, that's all that matters.”

“Thank you,” I say, shooting Mama a grateful look.

Dad holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m just sayin’, if he starts wearin’ them little beaded bracelets, I’m staging a full-scale intervention.”

Mama rolls her eyes and kisses the top of his head as she passes. “If you weren’t so ornery, I might actually let you age gracefully.”

There’s a chuckle from Lily as she walks by with a tray of deviled eggs. “Y’all flirting or fighting? Hard to tell.”

“Both,” they say at the same time, which is honestly disgusting and weirdly adorable.

Mama swats him with a dish towel before turning to me. “You do seem distracted though, honey. Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine Mama.” I insist, flipping another steak. “Just focused on making sure lunch is perfect.” The white lie flying off my tongue.

She doesn't believe me—I can tell by the way her eyes narrow slightly—but she lets it go, patting my arm before heading back inside.

When we sit down for lunch, it’s the usual Taylor chaos.

Mama's beaming over the wildflower centerpiece Lily put together, the sun glinting off her wine glass as she raises it in a toast to her pre-birthday celebration. There’s laughter, clinking silverware, and one of Dad’s inappropriate jokes that makes Christian snort iced tea through his nose.

“I swear, y’all are feral,” Lily mutters, handing him a napkin with the defeated air of someone who’s done this too many times to count.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. The kind of meal that settles your bones and roots you to the earth. But I can’t shake this damn ache in my chest—like something shifted and cracked open and now I don’t know how to close it.

“Grant hasn’t heard a damn thing we’ve said for the last ten minutes,”

Ryan announces, jabbing me with his elbow. “You checkin’ out or havin’ a stroke?”

I blink and look up, fork suspended halfway to my mouth, realizing everyone’s staring at me. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you followed up with Triple Crown Feeds,” Connor repeats, businesslike, brows already drawn. “You know, the sponsor you swore you’d call Monday?”

I shake my head, trying to gain some form of normalcy. “I’ll call them tomorrow,” I mutter, focusing way too hard on dissecting my steak.

Dad leans forward like a bloodhound catching a scent. “You look like your brain packed up and left town, son. You’re a million miles away.”

“Or thinking about someone a few miles away,” Lily mutters just loud enough for me to hear. She’s smirking, sipping her tea like she didn’t just lob a grenade into the conversation.

I shoot her a shut-up-or-perish look. Too late.

“ Someone ?” Mama perks up, activating her gossip goblin in record time and sporting that expression people get when they hear the phrase 'you didn’t hear this from me, but...'

“Grant, is there a girl we should know about son?” she asks, hands clasped like she’s praying to the matchmaking gods.

“There’s no girl,” I say too fast, too defensive, glaring at Lily.

“Liar,” Christian coughs into his napkin and earns a solid kick under the table, but the damage is done. Six pairs of Taylor eyes zero in on me with laser focus.

“Spill it,” Dad demands, a grin spreading across his weathered face. “Who's the poor soul who's caught our Grant's attention?”

“Nobody,” I insist. “Can we get back to planning Mama’s birthday party?”

Mama waves her hand. “Oh, honey, this is the best gift you could give me—my most feeling phobic son finally interested in someone.”

“I am not—” I start, but Lily cuts me off.

“It's that writer girl from the city,” she announces waving her hands in the air like someone who just had their nails painted. “The one who got lost on her way to Maine.”

“How do you know about that?” I ask, jaw tight.

She shrugs. “Annie told me—said you two looked real cozy in yoga class yesterday.”

“You took her to your yoga class?” Dad guffaws so hard he nearly chokes, slapping the table. “Must be serious!”

“I didn't take her anywhere,” I protest, feeling my face heat. “She was already there when I arrived.”

“Destiny,” Mama sighs dramatically as she slips her hand lovingly over my Dad’s hand.

“It's not destiny. It's a small town with limited activities, and too many nosy siblings.” I counter, but nobody's listening.

Connor leans back in his chair, all cool confidence in a crisp white button-down, and chimes in with a rare smile. “She pretty?”. The fact that he’s asking about her, sends me into orbit.

Something in me snaps.

The way he says it—casual, curious, like she’s just another bullet point in a client file and he’s actually considering her. Like he’s got any damn right. Like he’s entitled to wonder.

And for some reason, that flips a switch in me I didn’t know was wired so close to the surface.

My jaw tightens. The grip on the fork? White-knuckle tight.

“Why?” I bite out before I can stop myself. “You takin’ a poll or looking for a reason to cross a line?”

That earns me a low whistle from Ryan, and Lily straight-up cackles.

Connor blinks, caught off guard, hands raised in mock innocence.

“Easy, cowboy. Just asking.”

Before I can unleash a follow-up growl, Lily jumps in “Oh Annie says she’s gorgeous. athletic build, dark hair, sharp blue eyes that could cut a man down to size, intelligent and outspoken” Lily says it all without catching a breath, like she’s revealing some great mystery in a rush.

And now I’m picturing Connor seeing all of that. And I hate it.

I shovel a too-large bite of food into my mouth just so I don’t say something I’ll regret, like She’s not for you. She’s mine.

“She sounds terrifying,” Ryan comments still eyeing me.

“Sounds perfect for him,” Dad counters, gesturing toward me with his fork. “Boy needs a woman who’ll put him in his place. Never thought I’d see the day one of my boys got territorial over a woman he barely knows.” Dad grins behind his beer, because of course he would enjoy this.

Mama pats his arm, eyes locked on me like she’s solving a puzzle. “He knows her enough to growl about it.”

“Not growling,” I mutter.

“Oh brother, you just verbally marked your territory,” Connor says smugly, chuckling as he sips his drink.

“Relax. I’m not trying to poach your—what is she again?

…Your Yoga partner?” He leans in closer bumping me on the shoulder, looking mischievous as hell and whispers for only me to hear “or should I say…” he arches one perfect brow “your Bathroom Makeout Bandit ?”

And just like that, the temperature in my blood spikes.

Son of a—

I know exactly who put that ammo in his hands.

Mason.

The man hasn’t told a damn soul anything since 2009, but this is the moment his inner chatty Cathy awakens? Really? My bathroom makeout is what breaks the seal?!

I’m gonna straight up strangle that mother f — .

I glare at Conner. “Watch it.”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying how riled up I am. “Relax. Didn’t realize she was on the off-limits list.”

“She’s not on any damn list,” I snap, before catching the sharp look from Mama.

Lily’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, that sounded totally sane.”

Ryan leans in, smirking. “Should we get out the branding iron now, or wait until you’ve officially staked your claim?”

“I’m not staking anything,” I mutter, frustrated as fuck, whilst shooting Connor a glare that could torch fields. “She’s just… not the kind of girl you talk about like that.”

Connor raises a brow. “Like what?”

“Like she’s an option.”

Connor smirks at me and I want to punch his head in.

There’s a pause.

Then Dad chuckles low and slow. “Boy, you’re gone . Hook, line, and sunk.”

I shove back from the table just slightly, needing space I can’t find. Mia's not mine. I know that. But just the idea of another man—especially one of my own brothers—asking about her like that?

It makes my blood run hot.

And I don’t like the way that feels.

Mama pats my hand as I collect her plate. “Alright, honey. We'll stop embarrassing you.” She pauses, then adds, “But I expect to meet this mystery woman soon, like for my birthday soon.” She gives me a wink and taps the side of her nose like some matchmaking, date arranging gangster.

“There's nothing to meet,” I insist. “She's leaving town as soon as she sorts out her travel issues.”

A momentary silence falls over the table, and I immediately regret my words. I've revealed too much—that I know about her travel troubles, that there's an expiration date to whatever this is between us.

“Well then,” Dad says finally, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, “maybe you should make the most of the time she's here.”

Thankfully, the conversation shifts to safer topics—ranch business, the upcoming festival, Christian's latest mishap with the tractor—but Dad's words linger in my mind long after we've finished the lunch.