Page 19 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

Cold. That's the first sensation that penetrates my sleep-fogged brain. Cold and...wet?

My eyes fly open and I bolt upright on the couch, my foot instinctively kicking at whatever just soaked through my sock. My foot splashes into what definitely should not be there in the living room—water. Murky, foul-smelling water covering my living room floor.

“What the—?” I mutter, lifting my foot off the floor and back onto the safety of couch where I fell asleep, working last night. My laptop thankfully still beside me on the couch, open but miraculously dry.

It takes my sleep-fogged brain a moment to piece together the horror scene I’ve just woken up to.

It's barely 7 AM according to the wall clock, and I've woken to a nightmare. The delightful and cozy rental cottage—which Brè managed to secure for me in the middle of nowhere, and I'd gratefully moved into yesterday—is flooded.

I rub a hand over my face, trying to will this into a bad dream. But no. The water squelching between my toes in my sock says otherwise. So does the groan of a pipe in the wall, as if the house itself is apologizing. Or laughing. Probably laughing.

A rancid smell permeates the air, making me gag as I navigate, laptop under my arm, to higher ground, climbing onto a chair to survey the damage. The water is seeping from the bathroom, spreading across the hardwood floors like a slow-motion horror film.

I grab my phone and dial the emergency maintenance number the property manager scribbled on a post-it. Three rings later, a gruff voice answers.

“Portree Plumbing.” A monotone voice answers.

“My cottage is flooding!” I squeak “There's water everywhere, and it smells like” I struggle to find a polite description “—like sewage.”

“Address?” He sounds entirely unimpressed, like flooded homes are just another Tuesday morning routine.

I rattle off the location, perching precariously on my chair island while the water continues its steady rise.

“Be there in twenty,” the man says before hanging up.

Twenty minutes? I look down at the brackish water, now about an inch deep and showing no signs of stopping.

But then it hits me.

My stuff.

My stuff !

My few possessions—the bag of replacement clothes I'd purchased, my laptop bag, camera and equipment and the notebook containing my article notes, are all at risk sitting pretty on the bedroom floor.

Letting out a deep groan, I mentally apologize to my feet as I dismount Chair Island and tiptoe through the flood to the bedroom, the water splashing up my clothes every time I lift my foot.

The water is cold and slimy, making me winch and retch as far as I go.

Grabbing what I can carry, I start shuffling back through the water and hoisting everything onto the kitchen island, which has become my only refuge in this fetid swamp.

I shove my feet into my pink bunny slippers to find too late that they are, in fact, completely soaked through and ruined, wincing at the squelching sound and awful sensation that runs through my body, with every step.

RIP, bunnies. You deserved better.

The plumber—Bob, according to his coveralls—arrives eighteen minutes later, his weathered face impassive as he wades through my flooded living room.

“This is bad,” is his only comment delivered in his monotone voice, as he walks in and out the house checking pipes and finally heads for the bathroom.

I hover anxiously, trying to stay on drier patches of floor as he works, muttering to himself and occasionally letting out a low whistle that doesn't inspire confidence.

“So? What's the verdict?” I finally ask when I can't stand the suspense anymore.

Bob emerges from under the sink, his gloves covered in something I don't want to identify. “Fatberg,” he pronounces, like he's naming a disease.

“A what now?” I choke out.

“Fatberg” he repeats. “Buildup of grease, oil, and other stuff in the pipes. Congealed like concrete. Backing up the whole system.” He wipes his hands on a rag. “This line connects to the property across the road. That's where most of it comes from.”

A hot surge of anger replaces the cold dread in my veins. “You're telling me someone else caused this?”

“Yep. Someone's been pouring oil down their drain. Lots of it, too.”

He starts packing up his tools. “I've stopped the immediate backup, but the whole line needs to be cleared professionally. Place won't be habitable for at least a couple of weeks, depending on how soon you can get the flooring replaced.”

“Couple of weeks?” I echo, my voice rising several octaves.

“But I have nowhere else to go!” I squeak out.

Bob shrugs, the universal silent gesture for 'that sounds like a you problem.'

“You could take it up with the neighbors. Their mess, technically.”

I narrow my eyes, glaring through the front window at the house across the road—the sprawling, smug, dry-as-a-bone ranch-style mansion that looks like it was handpicked for a luxury magazine spread titled “Rustic But Rich.” It's got a wide wraparound porch, black railings and two rocking chairs on the porch, like it’s auditioning for a sweet tea commercial, and not a single drop of standing water in sight.

“Ohhh, I will Bob , don’t you worry.” My left eye start twitching excessively.

A very concerned look crosses Bob’s features.

“I’ll take it up with them alright…” I say, sounding positively unhinged.

Bob opens his mouth to say something—probably something helpful or reasonable—but I raise a finger like a feral librarian and snap, “Not now, Bob. I’m going in full suburban vengeance.

” I declare as I storm out the door, my soaked slippers making the kind of obscene squelching sounds that would get censored on daytime TV.

My silk pajama bottoms cling to my legs with the humidity, like they've given up on life, my short robe flapping behind me with each determined step and my hair—looks like I’ve lost a fight with a leaf blower, but I don’t care one iota, as I march up the drive like a woman on a mission, seeking justice.

I'm fueled by righteous indignation and a particular brand of fury that only comes from having your temporary sanctuary destroyed by someone else's negligence.

Stomping up the pristine porch steps, leaving a trail of wet footprints on their perfectly stained wood, I jab my finger on the doorbell, with perhaps more force than necessary. I hear it chime inside, loud and smug, and now—I’m committed.

Preparing my most scathing speech, I shift my weight from one soggy foot to the other. Just as I'm about to jab my finger into the doorbell again, the door swings open.

And there he stands.

None other than Grant Freaking Taylor .

Of fucking course.

He's wearing low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, his bare chest still glistening with water droplets as if he just stepped out of the shower.

His dark brown hair is still wet, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and a towel hangs around his neck.

The sight momentarily short-circuits my brain, anger giving way to something far more complicated.

“Mia?” He blinks rapidly in surprise.

His eyes drag over me, surprise melting into that insufferable half-smile.

“This is…unexpected.”

He leans against the door frame, one arm propped up, his bulging bicep flexed, like he’s auditioning for Cowboy GQ. All effortless charm, lick-able, way-too-perfect abs with that deep V running down his…

Focus, Mia!

I snap back to reality, remembering why I'm standing on his porch in wet slippers at stupid ‘o’clock in the morning.

“You!” I jab a finger at his chest. “You fatberged me!”

His brow arches. Then—he chuckles.

Chuckles! The absolute audacity of this man!

My mind is in a rage, but the sound makes something traitorous and warm fizz low in my stomach.

“Fatberged?” he repeats, like he’s sampling the word on his tongue, amused and way too smug about it.

“That’s real cute, Mia…” He smirk deepens. “but darlin’, you and I have two very different words for what I did to you.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?! Did you just turn my plumbing disaster into a sex joke?” I huff.

“What?” He shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “Not my fault you make every word sound dirty Princess”.

He steps forward, his dark gaze skimming my pj’s, down my legs, and back up to my eyes with agonizing slowness.

“Gotta say, never seen someone look so gorgeous while actively plotting my murder.” His voice dips lower. “You got rage down to an art form, angel.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me.... Violently.”

I snort. “Violently is right.”

He grins. “And damn, you're cute when you're wet...” his eyes slide deliberately down my body, “...and furious.”

Our gazes lock.

His lip twitch and oh, we both catch the double meaning.

“Ugh” I damn near growl refusing to take a step back, jabbing a finger in his direction mere millimeters from his annoyingly sculpted perfect pec.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grant. You...you poured your greasy… grease down the drains which clogged the pipes and flooded my whole cottage. Now, are you going to take responsibility for this or not?” I demand.

My arms crossed, and my body vibrating with barely restrained rage.

Meanwhile, he just stands there looking maddeningly dry…

maddeningly shirtless and entirely unbothered.

His brown eyes sweep over me again, pausing for a moment at my breasts that are now pushed up above my crossed arms, and that insufferable smirk returns—equal parts amusement and something darker, deeper—something I refuse to acknowledge right now.

And with that infuriatingly slow, smoldering once-over, I realize he hasn’t heard a single word I’ve said.

My chest heaves “I—are you even listening?!” I huff.

His grin widens. Of course it does. “Tell you what,” he continues, leaning just a little closer, voice low and dangerous, “how ’bout I take full responsibility… after I check you for water damage.”

“You are the actual worst,” I snap, heat flooding my cheeks—and a few other less cooperative places.