Page 31 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

It's during a lull in the festivities, as dusk settles over the ranch, that I find her standing alone, gazing up at the emerging stars.

“Escaping the Taylor madness?” I ask, moving to stand beside her.

She smiles, not looking at me. “Just taking a moment. It's beautiful out here. So many stars.”

“City lights drown them out where you're from?” I ask not taking my eyes off her.

She nods. “You can see some, but nothing like this.” She points upward. “What's that cluster there?”

I look where she's pointing. “That's the Pleiades. Seven Sisters. My grandpa used to say they were watching over the ranch.”

“I like that,” she says softly. “The idea of stars as guardians.”

We stand in companionable silence, shoulders almost touching. The distant sounds of laughter and music from the party fade into background noise.

“Thanks for bringing me tonight,” she says finally. “Your family is... special.”

“That's one word for them,” I chuckle. “Sorry about my dad's comments all night.”

She laughs, the sound warm in the cool evening air. “Don't be. It's refreshing, actually. No pretense, no filters. Just honest, messy humanity.”

“We've got plenty of that to spare,” I agree.

“I didn't have this,” Mia says suddenly, her voice quiet. “Growing up, I mean. After my mom died, it was just me and my dad, and he...” She trails off, looking into the distance. “He was so afraid of losing me too that he stopped living. Stopped letting me live.”

I turn to face her fully now, struck by this rare glimpse into her past. “Is that why you left? Why you're always on the move?”

She meets my eyes, vulnerability written across her face. “Partly. It became suffocating—his fear, his overprotection. Swimming was the only freedom I had.” Her lips curve in a sad smile. “The irony isn't lost on me that I found freedom in the very thing that took my mother.”

“But you didn't just find freedom,” I say, understanding dawning. “You found purpose. Excellence.”

Mia nods. “Swimming gave me goals, discipline, a way to channel all the feelings I couldn't express. Travel writing came later, but it was born from the same need to keep moving, to never get trapped.”

“And now?” I ask, heart pounding with a question I'm not sure I want answered. “Do you still feel that need to escape?”

She looks away, back toward the stars. “I don't know anymore. Everything feels... different here.”

The weight of what she's not saying hangs between us. I want to ask what's different, if I'm part of that difference, but I'm afraid of pushing too hard, too fast.

Instead, I gently take her hand, interlacing our fingers. Her skin is cool against mine, but she doesn't pull away.

“You know what I think?” I say, drawing her attention back to me.

“What's that?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She turns her head towards me as we lock eyes.

“I think sometimes the bravest thing isn't jumping into the deep end—it's staying still long enough to see what's around you.”

Her eyes widen slightly, recognition flashing in them. “Are you using my own swimming metaphors against me, Taylor?”

I grin, squeezing her hand. “Maybe. Is it working?”

A laugh escapes her, breaking the tension. “You're impossible.”

“So I've been told.”

We stand there, hands linked, faces illuminated only by starlight. I want to kiss her again, to pick up where we left off in that restroom before she ran. But something holds me back—the knowledge that this moment is fragile, that whatever is growing between us needs nurturing, not rushing.

“There you two are!” Mama's voice cuts through our bubble of privacy. She appears at the edge of the yard, hands on her hips. “We're about to cut the cake, and I need my son and his beautiful date present.”

“Coming, Mama,” I call back, not releasing Mia's hand.

She glances at our intertwined fingers, then up at me. “Grant,” she says softly, hesitation in her voice.

“I know,” I reply, understanding without her having to say it. This is temporary. She'll leave soon. We're from different worlds.

But as we walk back toward the warm glow of the party, I can't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, some temporary things are worth the inevitable pain of their ending.

Inside, the large dining room buzzes with conversation and laughter. Mom's birthday cake—a towering chocolate creation that Dad definitely didn't bake himself—sits at the center of the table, candles already lit.

“About time!” Dad exclaims when he spots us. “We thought you two might have snuck off for some private celebrating.” He winks suggestively.

“Eric!” Mom scolds, though there's no real heat in it.

“What? It's my duty as a father to embarrass my children at every opportunity,” he defends, filling glasses with champagne. “Builds character.”

“Is that what you call it?” I mutter, guiding Mia to a spot next to me at the table.

The family gathers around as Mama prepares to blow out her candles. I notice Mia watching the scene with a wistful expression that tugs at something deep in my chest. How long has it been since she celebrated a birthday with family? Since she felt part of something bigger than herself?

“Make a wish, darlin’!” Dad encourages as he comes to stand next to Mama planting a quick kiss on her cheek, and Mama closes her eyes briefly before blowing out all the candles in one breath.

Applause erupts, followed by calls for a speech. Mama stands, glass in hand, her face flushed with happiness.

“I just want to thank everyone for being here tonight,” she says, looking around the table. “Family is everything, and I'm blessed to have all of you.” Her gaze settles on Mia. “Including new friends who already feel like family.”

Mia's eyes widen in surprise, a flush creeping up her neck at the unexpected inclusion. Under the table, I squeeze her knee gently, feeling her tension release slightly at my touch.

As cake is served and conversations resume, I find myself watching Mia instead of participating. She's laughing at something Lily said, her entire face lighting up in a way I've rarely seen. In this moment, surrounded by the chaos and love of the Taylor family, she looks like she belongs.

And that realization terrifies me, because I'm starting to want her to belong—here, with us, with me—more than I've wanted anything in a long time.

It's during a lull in conversation, as Mom serves homemade peach cobbler, that Connor mentions Jake.

“Remember how Jake used to steal all the peaches before Mom could bake with them?” he says, smiling at the memory.

I tense, expecting the mood to darken, but instead, Mama laughs softly.

“That boy would have lived on fruit if we'd let him,” she says, her eyes shining with both sadness and affection. “He'd hide in that big oak tree by the kitchen window and drop peach pits on anyone who walked underneath.”

“Got me right on the head once,” Eric adds, touching a spot on his crown. “Kid had perfect aim.”

I feel the corners of my lips quirk at the memories. “He waited for hours for the perfect shot,” I say. “Said it was revenge for making him clean the stables that week.”

The conversation flows on, memories of Jake woven naturally into the fabric of family history—present but not dominating, honored rather than avoided.

I look at Mia’s profile and from the wistful look on her face, I imagine it must have been such a different experience for her, where her father’s grief turned her mother into an untouchable subject, her memory preserved in silence rather than stories.

When Dad produces a faded photo album after dinner, I’m mortified as Mama shares my childhood pictures with Mia. She laughs as she says how much Jake looked like a younger me—skinny, gap-toothed, but with the same mischievous eyes.

“He was a mini-Grant,” Dad says softly as we look at a picture of my brothers with fishing poles by the river.

“Better than me,” I respond, his finger tracing the edge of the photo. “Kinder. Funnier. Everyone's favorite.”

“Not true,” Mama says, overhearing as she collects dessert plates. “Different, not better. Just like all our children are different parts of our hearts.”

Later, as I drive us back to my house under a canopy of stars, I find Mia unusually quiet, processing the evening.

“Too much Taylor for one night?” I ask, glancing at her with concern.

She shakes my head. “No. Actually, just the right amount.” She pauses, as if struggling to articulate what she’s feeling. “Your family talks about Jake so... naturally. Like he's still part of your lives.”

“He is,” I say simply. “Took years to get there, though. The first couple of birthdays, holidays... those were brutal.” I shudder at the memories of how heartbroken we all were and each of us trying to deal with it, to process the loss of him in our own ways.

“Dad wouldn't even go near the river. Mama put away all Jake's pictures.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“But gradually, we learned that remembering hurt less than trying to forget.”

“My dad never learned that,” she admits, watching the darkened landscape roll past. “After my Mom died, it was like she never existed. No photos, no stories, no mention of her name.” Her voice cracks as looks off into the distance.

I reach over to take her hand, my thumb tracing circles on her palm. “I'm sorry, Mia. That's a different kind of drowning.”

Turning her head to me, her eyebrows draw together as if this understanding hits her square in the chest, unlocking something in her that she’s kept tightly sealed. “Yeah,” she whispers. “It is.”

The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence, my hand still in hers, our fingers interlaced as if they've always belonged that way. It's a small gesture, but it’s anchoring for both of us. I look over at Mia and she’s deep in thought.

When we reach my house, a strange reluctance comes over me. I don't want this night to end, don't want to break whatever spell has been cast over us.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask as we step inside, seeming equally unwilling to say goodnight.

“Yes,” she answers quickly. “I mean, sure. If you're having one.”

I smile and turn but not before I catch the movement of her chest as her breath hitches. “I'll meet you on the back porch. The view of the stars is better out there.”

***

Mia

While he heads to the kitchen, I slip into my room to kick off my heels and grab my phone. Three missed calls from Brè. Guilt pricks at me – I've barely thought about work, deadlines, or real life all evening.

“I should call her back,” I say when Grant appears with two tumblers of whiskey.

“Go ahead,” he says, handing me a tumbler and nodding toward the porch. “I'll be outside.”

I dial Brè's number, sinking onto the edge of the bed as it rings.

“She lives!” Brè's voice is dramatic when she answers. “I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by cowboys.”

“Sorry, I was at a family dinner,” I say, then immediately regret my phrasing.

“Family dinner?” Brè pounces on the words like a cat on a mouse. “Whose family? Not yours, unless your dad suddenly materialized in Texas.”

I close my eyes, knowing what's coming. “Grant's family. For his mom's birthday.”

“Grant? The cowboy you're 'absolutely not interested in' Grant?” I can hear her smirk through the phone. “The same Grant whose house you're currently staying at, completely platonically, of course?”

“It's…complicated,” I sigh, falling back on the bed. “His family caused the plumbing disaster that flooded my rental. They felt responsible.”

“Uh-huh. And do all responsible Texans invite the victims of their plumbing disasters to family birthday parties? Is that a southern hospitality thing I'm unaware of?”

“Stop it,” I groan. “It wasn't like that.”

“Then what was it like?” Her voice softens. “Come on, Mia. Talk to me. What's really going on there?”

I stare at the ceiling, struggling to put into words the tangle of feelings I've been avoiding. “I don't know, Brè. He's... not what I expected. Neither is this place. I came here furious about being in the wrong Portree, desperate to leave, and now...”

“Now you're not so desperate?” she supplies.

“Something like that,” I admit. “His family is amazing – loud and inappropriate and so full of love. They've been through real tragedy, losing his younger brother, but they've found a way to keep living, to keep him present in their lives without letting grief consume them.”

“Unlike your dad,” Brè says gently.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “And Grant... he understands things about me that I've never told anyone. He sees me, Brè. Not the swimmer, not the writer, just... me.”

“And that terrifies you,” she states rather than asks.

“Completely.” I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “I'm supposed to be leaving with Olympic training starting in a few weeks. A career that requires me to be constantly moving. I can't... I don't know how to...”

“Stay,” Brè finishes for me. “You don't know how to stay.” She supplies.

My throat tightens. “Right.”

“And how does Grant feel about all this?”

“He hasn't pushed,” I say, recalling the gentle pressure of his hand in mine. “But I think... I think he wants me to consider not running this time.”

Brè is quiet for a moment. “Would that be so terrible? Finding someone worth sticking around for?”

“Says the woman who just broke things off with Jeremy because he mentioned meeting his parents,” I counter, grateful to shift the focus.

Brè groans. “That's different. Jeremy was getting too serious too fast.”

“Was he? Or were you just scared of the same thing I am – that maybe there's something real there worth exploring?”

“When did you become the relationship guru?” she asks, but I can hear the thoughtfulness in her voice. “You think I should call him, don't you?”

“I think,” I say slowly, surprising myself with my own words, “that sometimes running away is easier than finding out what might happen if you stay.”

Silence stretches between us.

“Well, well,” Brè finally says. “Texas has changed you, Bonney.”

“No,” I reply, standing up and looking out the window to where Grant waits on the porch, his profile outlined against the night sky.

“Not Texas. But maybe someone in it has.”