Page 28 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

My knuckles are bone-white on the steering wheel, like I’m trying to choke the truck into behaving. I’ve driven down this dirt road more times than I can count. I could close my eyes and still find every pothole, every damn tree. But today?

Today feels like the ground itself might shift under me.

Because she’s here.

Mia.

In my truck. In my passenger seat. In my world.

She shifts beside me, one leg crossing over the other, and I swear I hear the fabric of her sundress whisper against her thighs—soft, subtle, dangerous.

“It’s just a little sundress.” She mentioned it offhand like it’s no big deal, like seeing her in that little floral sundress didn’t just hijack my entire ability to think straight, since the moment I set eyes on her.

The way it clings to her athletic frame, those toned legs on full display, the neckline dipping just enough to test my damn resolve...

Fuck me, this is gonna be one hell of a day of me starrin’ at her.

I glance over—just for a second—and it nearly wrecks me.

Her dark hair is pulled back in that messy, sexy way that looks like she just rolled out of bed and gave zero fucks, even though I know better.

There’s sunlight catching in the edges of her naturally long lashes.

Her soft pink lips are slightly parted. And that dress— fuck , that dress—is the kind of simple that makes a man think stupid, primal things.

Like how easy it would be to slide the straps off her shoulders.

How she'd look standing in my bedroom, back pressed to the door, that sundress bunched around her waist while I kissed her like I’ve been chasing the taste of her my whole damn life.

I bite down on that thought like I’m fighting for my life over here.

Fuck, Grant. Pull it together.

Eyes back on the road, cowboy. You’re not gonna be the man who introduces her to his mother with a hard-on and a sinner's smirk.

I shift in my seat and bite down the groan threatening to crawl up my throat. This girl’s got my blood pressure doing rodeo tricks. And worse, she doesn’t even know. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s the whole damn problem.

“You’re quiet,” she says, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. There’s a softness to her tone, a curiosity laced with something that sounds like uncertainty.

I force my eyes forward, jaw tight. “Just thinking.”

“About how much you regret inviting me?” she jokes, but I hear it—the tiny flicker of doubt she tries to hide under her smirk.

Without thinking, I reach over and thread my fingers through hers. Her hand fits mine like it was made for it—warm, steady, real—and I feel her still beside me. Hear the way her breath catches in her throat.

I glance at her again, this time with no shame.

“About how much I don’t. ” My voice is low. My thumb brushes over her knuckles. Firm. “Though I should probably warn you again—my family is a lot .”

She laughs, and I swear, I feel it right in the center of my chest. Like something stretching. Cracking open.

“You’ve mentioned that about seventeen times now. I think I get it.”

I shoot her a sideways glance, and there’s that smile—the one that makes it so fucking easy to imagine her sitting across the dinner table at Christmas or barefoot in my kitchen while I cook her eggs and kiss the back of her neck. The thought hits too fast, too real.

Because I don’t do this.

I don’t bring women home. I don’t bring women here. This ranch? My family? It’s the raw, unpolished truth of me. It’s not a curated version. It’s me, inside out. And letting her see that—inviting her in, not just into the house but into the soil that shaped me—that’s not a small thing.

It’s everything.

“You really don't,” I mutter, turning onto the long driveway lined with oak trees. “My dad especially. He has zero filter. Like, literally none.”

“I can handle inappropriate humor, Grant. I'm not exactly delicate.”

I know she's not delicate. This is a woman who trains for the Olympics, who survived losing her mother, who adapts to whatever life throws at her with a resilience that leaves me in awe. But my family could test the patience of a saint.

“Just... don't say I didn't warn you,” I tell her as the main house comes into view, already surrounded by vehicles. The whole clan is here, apparently.

Mia's eyes widen at the sprawling ranch house with its wraparound porch, shutters flanking every window and the massive barn behind it, where colorful streamers announce my mother's birthday celebration. “This is where you grew up?”

“Home sweet home,” I confirm, parking the truck. “Ready?”

She takes a deep breath, then nods. “As I'll ever be.”

She doesn’t know what she’s walking into.

But hell if I don’t want her to walk in anyway. Right beside me. Just like this.

I lead her toward the house, hyper-aware and loving the feel of her hand in mine and the curious glances already being thrown our way. We don't even make it to the porch before the tornado that is my family descends.

“There he is!” Dad's voice booms across the yard. He strides toward us, arms outstretched, wearing his ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron over a button-down shirt. “And he's brought a girl! The world must be ending!”

Mama appears beside him, swatting his arm. “Eric, behave yourself.” She turns to Mia with a warm smile that reminds me why I love her so much. “You must be Mia. We've heard so much about you.”

“All lies,” I interject quickly, earning a laugh from Mia.

“It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Taylor,” she says, extending her hand. “Happy birthday.”

Mama bypasses the handshake and pulls her into a big hug. “Call me Celia, honey. And thank you for coming. It's not every day that my most elusive son brings a date to family dinner.”

“She means her most emotionally constipated son!” Christian shouts from somewhere in the background.

Mama ignores him and turns to me. “What? It’s true!

” she says innocently, but there’s mischief in her tone.

She releases Mia from the hug and stage-whispers with zero actual volume control, “He hasn’t brought a girl home since high school.

We were starting to think he’d secretly joined a monastery… or a cult.”

“I can hear you,” I deadpan.

Dad steps forward, sizing Mia up with a gleam in his eye that makes me instantly nervous. “So you're the city girl who's got my son walking into walls and forgetting his own name.

“Dad—” I start, but Mia interrupts.

“I wasn't aware of my wall-walking influence,” she says smoothly. “Though that might explain the bruise on his forehead.”

Dad's eyebrows shoot up, and for a split second, I worry he'll say something truly mortifying. Then he throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing across the yard.

“Y’all know how many Taylor men it takes to fall in love? One. Grant. And apparently all it takes is a sundress and a sharp tongue.” He laughs at his own joke, stepping in next to me.

“I like her,” he declares, slapping me on the back. She's quick. Good luck keeping up, son.”

Before I can respond, the rest of the Taylor siblings descend. My older brother Connor shakes Mia's hand formally, ever the businessman even at family gatherings.

“Connor, loosen up man!” Ryan the oldest Taylor sibling says, slapping Connor on the shoulder and rolling his eyes as he offers her a quick hug. “Ignore him. He was born wearing khakis”.

Christian my youngest brother is next and hugs her and immediately launches into the story of how his plumbing disaster led to her staying with me to anyone with ears within a 100 yard radius.

“So technically,” he concludes with a grin, “you should be thanking me for your current living arrangement.”

“I'll send a fruit basket to express my gratitude for the sewage in my rental,” Mia deadpans, and Christian barks out a laugh.

“That’s it. She’s staying. She’s ours now.”

“Let’s all calm down,” I mutter, but no one’s listening.

Lily bursts onto the porch like a ray of sunshine with too much caffeine, greeting Mia like they’ve been swapping friendship bracelets since kindergarten.

“That dress looks insane on you girl,” she announces, eyeing Mia up and down with an approving grin. “Total main-character energy.”

Mia blinks, clearly caught off guard by the enthusiasm, but a faint blush colors her cheeks as she hugs Lily back—just a little awkwardly, like she’s still figuring out the choreography of this small-town welcome wagon.

“Thanks,” Mia says, voice a little shy, a little amused. “It was the least-wrinkled thing left in my bag.”

“Wrinkled or not, if I had your legs I’d be wearing napkins,” Lily declares with a wink, already dragging her into the chaos like they’ve known each other forever.

Mason steps out onto the porch, quiet as always.

He made it back just in time—called out earlier for a firefighter emergency, and knowing him, he ran into a burning house and still made it home for dinner like it was no big deal.

His blue eyes land on Mia with that silent weight of his.

I introduce her to my best friend. He doesn’t speak right away—just gives a nod in greeting, respectful, unreadable.

I don’t miss how Mia’s eyes widen when they meet his. That silent, broad-shouldered, steel-eyed thing Mason’s got going? Yeah. The ladies eat it up.

A little green gremlin starts gnawing at my ear but I flick it away.There’s no need to be jealous, because there’s more than just loyalty between us.

Mason was there the day Jake died. Helped me pull him out the water.

He was there the moment my world cracked wide open, and he held me up when I damn near fell apart.

Devon too. They’ve lived next door to Portree Hill Ranch with their aunt and uncle since they were kids.

Their aunt and my mama have been locked in a dessert war for fifteen years—lemon meringue snipes and cherry pie showdowns at every church picnic.

It’s the kind of rivalry that involves poisonously sweet smiles and one- upping each other with baked goods, all underpinned by real, unwavering love.