Page 20 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

“Nope,” he says with a wink. “I’m just the one you storm to, dripping wet, ready to murder me. Admit it, angel. You missed me.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words.

I uncross my arms with a dramatic flair and slam my hands onto my hips, channeling every ounce of fed-up energy I have into a full-bodied glare.

He quirks a brow and sweeps a hand toward me like he’s presenting a damn stage. “By all means, Princess . Enlighten me and explain.” His head tilts slightly, that smug patience written all over his face.

The nickname hits its mark—I feel it like a spark to dry grass—but I press my lips together and power through the urge to rise to it. One disaster at a time.

“My cottage, ” I bite out, pointing behind me “is flooded because someone in this house ,” —I gesture wildly behind him— “has been pouring grease down the drain like they've never heard of proper disposal methods!”

Grant's eyes finally widen with understanding, then flicker with what looks suspiciously like guilt. “Mia, I can explain, that wasn’t me—,” he mutters.

“I don't care who did it,” I continue, building steam now. “My temporary home is underwater with disgusting gunk, and the plumber says it's coming from here!”

“Look, I'm sorry about—”

“Sorry doesn't fix my flooded cottage! Sorry doesn't give me somewhere to stay for the 'couple of weeks' it'll take to fix!”

“Look, I understand you're upset—” he puts his hands up.

“Upset? Upset? ” I practically shriek like a deranged banshee. “Oh I'm waaay past upset! I'm—”

My tirade is instantly interrupted by movement behind him when a beautiful woman appears, sliding her arm around Grant's waist with the ease and familiarity of a lover.

“What's all the commotion?” she asks, her voice honey-sweet as her eyes assess me from head to toe.

My words die in my throat.

This woman is gorgeous—tall and willowy with perfectly styled blonde hair and the kind of casual elegance that only comes with money. She's wearing an oversized men's shirt that barely covers her thighs, clearly comfortable in Grant's space.

Exactly like…a girlfriend .

The bile rises in my throat at the thought. Of course he has a girlfriend.

And of course, she looks like a walking Pinterest board of effortless cool, while I look like your average swamp witch.

The embarrassment hits me like a physical blow as memories of our kiss flash through my mind. Him between my thighs looking up at me, his filthy words sending me over the edge. Oh God, I kissed someone's boyfriend. In a restroom for goodness sake! Like some horny little homewrecker.

And he kissed me, and all that teasing, all that tension—it wasn’t just some random flirtation. I felt it. And the whole damn time, he had her here.

I narrow my eyes at him, my jaw clenches so tight, I swear I might break a tooth.

Across from me, the blonde goddess releases Grant and folds her arms with the kind of practiced grace that screams confidence and territory claimed.

She gives Grant a look so sharp it could file steel, and I almost want to applaud. It’s the kind of disappointment that says, “ Really? You brought the drama home and let it piss on the welcome mat?”

To his credit, Grant has the decency to look vaguely uncomfortable.

I finally pull myself together, squaring my shoulders.

“Look, I'm sorry for interrupting your morning,” I say stiffly, deliberately taking a step back from Grant and his girlfriend .

“but your boyfriend here flooded my house.” I snap, my voice tight but controlled, only because screaming would be undignified…

or at least any more screaming would be.

Grant opens his mouth—probably to offer some half-assed explanation—but his girlfriend cuts him off.

To my surprise, she looks genuinely concerned. “What happened?”

“Fatberg,” I say, the ridiculous word sounding even more absurd now. “A buildup of cooking oil and grease in the pipes. Coming from this house.”

“ Christian ,” Grant and the woman say simultaneously, exchanging knowing looks.

“Who's Christian?” I ask, then shake my head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is, my rental is uninhabitable, and according to the plumber, it's your fault.”

Grant runs one hand through his damp hair, and sighs, scrubbing the other hand down his face. “I’m real sorry about this, Mia. My brother’s not usually allowed in the kitchen—man’s a Marine machine, but a walking health hazard with a spatula, but I swear we’ll make it right.”

Brother . Not him.

Something in me loosens slightly at this information and the sound of his genuine apology—one I wasn’t expecting to receive, but I push the feeling away. It still doesn't solve my problem.

“Well, your brother's carelessness has left me homeless,” I say, crossing my arms. “Again.”

The blonde woman’s eyes widen with sudden recognition, like I’m a surprise celebrity appearance at her family barbecue. “Wait—you’re Mia ? The writer?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah?”

“I'm Lily,” she beams, launching herself at me wrapping her arms around me in an almighty hug.

I freeze. Shaken by the sudden change in conversation. I hug her back. Sort of. Mostly I pat her shoulder like she’s a feral cat I’m trying not to startle.

“I’ve heard so much about you!” she gushes, pulling away with a grin so genuine it could power a small town.

Heard about me ?

From who?

From Grant ?

Surely not. He wouldn’t have mentioned me to his girlfriend.

And if he did, what exactly would he have said?

“Oh hey, Lily my love, you know the other day I went into town, well, there’s this girl in town—real firecracker—ended up with my tongue right down her pussy and halfway down her throat while you were here, being the good little girlfriend back home, probably alphabetizing the spice rack and waiting for me to finish my moral collapse. ”

“Ha!” is my only response, as I continue to stare at Grant’s girlfriend.

I can feel my face doing that horrible twitchy thing—where one eye is blinking excessively and my mouth is frozen in a fake smile. I’m fully aware I look deranged, but completely helpless to stop it.

My soul is halfway out the door waving a white flag and my intrusive thoughts are doing backflips.

I am not equipped for this social curveball.

What.Do.I.Do?

Do I confess everything? Just lay it all out there like, “Hey, real sorry I frenched your boyfriend while you were here, busy making lemon water and being stunningly supportive, hee hee.”

Oorrr… Option two.

Do I take off these soaked bunny slippers and yeet them at her as a distraction, while I sprint back to the cottage like a deranged feral woodland creature?

I squeak out a laugh. And no, not a cute little laugh. Oh no, it’s the kind of noise a dying squirrel might make. Somewhere between a wheeze and a full-on nervous breakdown.

Oh yeah, my vocal cords are betraying me in real time over here.

I could fake a nosebleed.

Pretend I don’t speak English.

A kaleidoscope of obscene and all very unhelpful options fly through my mind, but no, I momentarily shake my head. If Lily knows who I am, that means Grant must have told her. Looking like that. All blonde and gorgeous and natural, like she eats clean and wakes up glowing.

Oh God. My body feels the full-on cringe internally as I prepare myself.

I decide to go with option two, as I begin to lean down, ever so slowly, grabbing the floppy ear of my sodden bunny slipper with full intent to yeet that sucker straight into the atmosphere —

“My Dad mentioned you were staying in the cottage,” Lily continues.

I blink. Brain buffering.

“…Ahhh,” I nod, awkwardly slipping the wet slipper back on, like it didn’t almost just become a projectile missile, feeling incredibly relieved for the interruption of my intrusive thoughts and the explanation.

“I..uh..yeah, I was staying there.” I say as casually as I can muster.

“The plumber says it'll be at least two weeks before I can go back though,” I explain again, hearing the weariness in my own voice. “I don't suppose there's a hotel nearby that doesn't require ID?”

Grant and Lily exchange a look I can't quite interpret.

“Actually,” Lily says, her lips curving into a smile that can only be described as mischievous, “Grant has plenty of room. “You could stay here!”

Grant's eyes widen. “Lily—”

“What? You do. That guest suite is just sitting empty.” She turns back to me. “It makes perfect sense. Our family caused your problem, so we should provide the solution.”

“No, I couldn't possibly—” I start.

“Of course you can,” Lily insists. “It's the least we can do after Christian flooded your place. And it'll save you the trouble of finding somewhere else at such short notice”

I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and pretend I have a scrap of dignity left. My entire body recoils. “I—what? No, that’s not…”

“I thought you said you didn’t have anywhere else to go and no ID.” Lily says with just a hint of smugness in her voice.

Wow, that stung. And the worst part is, she’s right. I don’t have anywhere else to go. My bank cards are lost, I have no passport, no form of ID, and I don’t dare phone Brè to book another hotel. But moving in with Grant and his stunning girlfriend? That feels like pure torture.

I turn back to Grant, hoping—praying—that he has the good sense to shut this down, but instead, the bastard’s just watching me, his expression unreadable.

“So, unless you have another option...?” Lily continues undeterred.

I open my mouth. Close it. Grind my teeth.

Shit.

She knows I don’t.

She glances at Grant with a look that says say something.

Grant clears his throat. “She's right. You should stay here until your place is fixed up.”

His tone is polite, but there's an undercurrent I can't quite identify. Is he only offering, because his girlfriend (ugh the bile that rises at that word) pushed him into it? The thought makes me want to refuse on principle.

I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”