Page 21 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

“You won’t,” She states matter of fact. “there’s a rodeo and a festival taking over the town.” She says with a smug shrug, gesturing to the endless expanse of dirt road and sunbaked landscape. “Unless you’re planning to sleep on a bale of hay. Because that’s all that’s left.”

“I’ll make somewhere else.”

Grant snorts. “What? You gonna build a hut out of wet floorboards and sheer willpower?

“ Maybe .” I narrow my eyes and glare at him.

“ Riiight ,” he drawls, the intensity in his gaze makes my chest tight. There’s something predatory in his patience, like he’s cataloging every inch of my unraveling with a mental notebook and a damn highlighter.

Ignoring us both, Lily claps her hands together, loud and decisive like she’s officially signing a contract neither of us agreed to.

“Perfect! Then it’s settled.”

Grant shoots Lily a sideways look and there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth that gives him away. He’s enjoying this. My reaction. My discomfort. My slow unravelling.

His eyes find mine again, and sweet hell, it’s like being hit with a heatwave. The look he gives me? Lingering. Loaded. And just long enough to short-circuit my brain.

“Welcome home, Mia,” he says, all low gravel and sinful. “Mi casa es su casa. We’ll help you bring your things over—if they haven’t floated off to Mexico by now.” He chuckles.

The absolute nerve of this man. He says it like he’s offering me a spa retreat, instead of a swamp replacement guest room in the House of Cowboy Chaos.

Lily turns and disappears inside, leaving me alone with Grant on the porch. The silence between us crackles with unspoken words.

It’s only when I glance down that the full horror of my situation hits me square in the nipples—literally.

My robe is fully open, revealing all of my soft pink silky pajamas…

and bunny slippers. The top? Practically see-through thanks to the humidity, and my nipples?

Front and center like they RSVP’d early to the embarrassment party.

Oh Jeez. I cringe internally right down to my toes. I look like I’ve wandered out of a sleepover and straight into a wet-and-silky-themed thirst trap.

I can feel my face igniting into a hue so red it could signal an aircraft, but I refuse to cross my arms or make a single move to cover myself.

I’ve got pride. Even if it’s about as effective as a wet tissue in a thunderstorm right now.

When I finally glance up, Grant is looking.

No—he’s admiring.

His gaze drags slowly, shamelessly, from the top of my flustered head to my mortified toes, pausing unapologetically on the parts I would very much like to keep out of public interest. His eyebrow arches. His mouth twitches. That cowboy smirk threatens full-blown ignition.

He’s enjoying this. The bastard is enjoying this.

Of course he is.

That cocky half-smile is practically carved into his face. And I know—I know —he caught the way my jaw dropped when he opened the door shirtless, golden and gleaming like a goddamn cowboy calendar model.

I'm the first to look away, my gaze dropping to his bare chest, which is a huge mistake. The defined muscles there make my fingers twitch with the memory of touching them.

I try to be strong. I try to maintain eye contact like a respectable human adult.

But my gaze betrays me. Hard.

It snags—hard—on the broad, bronzed plane of his chest. His pecs are firm, sculpted, like he was hand-selected by the universe to make all shirts obsolete. There’s a faint sheen of water droplets clinging to his skin, catching the light just enough to make him look criminally edible.

Then my eyes drift lower—because I’m a single woman and it’s been a while—and land on the ridges of his abs, tight and carved and way too smug about it.

My gaze drifts lower to... the V, sweet mother of lust .

That infuriating, glorious V that cuts sharp and low beneath his gray sweatpants like it’s pointing to trouble. And it is. Big trouble. My gaze stumbles over the bulge beneath his waistband—undeniable, unapologetic, and very much not subtle.

My mouth goes dry, my thighs betray me with a throb, and I stare —wide-eyed, shameless, borderline criminal.

“You alright there, Princess?” His voice sounding deep and low.

Snap out of it. Snap out of it!

I blink hard, like shaking off a hallucination, then blurt the first thing that pushes through the fog:

“Is Lily your girlfriend ?”

Great. Perfect. Very smooth. Ask about the girlfriend while drooling . That’s definitely not emotionally unhinged at all.

Grant blinks, surprised. “Lily?” Then his grin widens. “No. Wait. Hold up. You thought Lily was my girlfriend ?”

“I didn't know what to think,” I admit. “You never mentioned her and—shut up, stop laughing.” I say with my arms crossed.

“I’m not laughing,” he says with his shoulders still shaking. “I’m just processing how my half-naked city girl—sorry, writer —got jealous of my sister .”

My brain snags on the “ my half naked city girl” but I brush it off in my defense.

“ Pffft” I scoff, crossing my arms again.

“ I wasn’t…ugh…I wasn’t jealous,” I huff, completely failing at nonchalance. “I was… situationally confused. And horrifically underdressed.”

One of his eyebrows arches with obnoxious grace.

“Well, that’s true,” he says, eyes lazily sweeping over me again. “But I’m not exactly complaining here darlin,’” His tongue runs over his bottom lip and my lungs forget how to do their job. “we haven't exactly had lengthy conversations about our families.”

“True.” I shift uncomfortably, the wet slippers becoming unbearable. “Our interactions have been... brief.”

His lips curve into that half-smile again. “But memorable.”

Heat rushes to my face. “We should probably not talk about that.”

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. “The yoga class? The Whisky Barrel? Or the part where you kissed me in the men’s room?”

“You kissed me,” I correct him.

“My memory says it was mutual.” He drawls with a wink. That thick southern accent somehow getting thicker.

“And for the record; I would never cheat, Mia. It’s not how I’m built.”

I open my mouth to say something, but Lily reappears, now dressed in jeans and a fitted T-shirt.

“Let's go rescue your belongings!” she says cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the tension between us. “Grant, go put on a shirt before you scare the wildlife and get the guest room ready.”

He rolls his eyes but steps back into the house. “Right, you sure you don’t need my help?”

“Nope” Lily pops the “p” as she hooks her arm into mine and starts leading me down the steps.

As Lily leads me down the drive, she leans in and says under her breath, “Just so you know, I’m his sister. In case that wasn’t clear through your nipple-induced panic.”

I let out a strangled laugh. “Thanks. I’ll add that to the long list of things I’ll lie awake replaying for the rest of my life.”