Page 32 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

The morning sun filters through the bedroom window like it’s trying to be gentle.

Soft golden light cuts across the floor, catching on the dust in the air, warming the old wood.

I’ve been awake for an hour now, lying flat on my back, one arm flung over my eyes like it’ll block out the thoughts crowding in behind them, replaying last night's dinner in my mind.

Bringing Mia home, watching her with my family.

I can still hear her laugh—ringing through my parents’ kitchen last night as she tried to follow one of Dad’s “homemade margaritas” and nearly choked on the salt rim.

I can still see her eyes, wet with tears from laughing so hard, flicking to mine across the table.

I remember the way my chest clenched like a lasso had been thrown straight around my ribs.

She fit. Too well. Like she’d always been meant to sit at our table —it all felt so natural, like she belonged there. Like she belonged with me.

And that scares the absolute shit outta me.

I roll out of bed, groaning as my shoulder pops and throbs. The quiet in the house is thick, but then I hear it—soft footsteps pacing, back and forth. Like something’s too big to sit still.

I follow the sound into the living room.

Mia’s there. Barefoot, wearing a tank top and shorts, hair a messy twist on top of her head, moving like she’s got sparks under her skin. There’s this tight coil in her body, like if she stops moving, she might snap in half.

“Morning,” I say, voice still graveled from sleep, leaning against the doorframe locking one ancle over the other.

She stops. Turns. Her eyes land on me, and I swear, I feel it all the way to my spine. “Morning.”

“You okay? You look like you're about to crawl out of your skin.”

“I'm fine.” She runs a hand through her dark hair, pulling it tighter. “Just restless. I usually swim every morning. It's been days since I've had a proper workout.”

I nod, understanding dawning. She doesn’t have to explain. I get it. For her, water isn’t just sport, it’s a burning need her body craves.

“The Wellington community pool doesn't open until noon on Mondays”

“I know.” She sighs, resuming her pacing. “It's fine. I'll survive.”

But the look on her face says otherwise. Her body is tense, her movements agitated. Swimming isn't just exercise for her—it's oxygen, necessary for survival.

“Want breakfast?” I offer. “I make a mean omelet. No pepper, I promise.”

That earns me a small smile. “Sure. Let me just change first.”

As she disappears down the hallway, my phone buzzes. Lily.

Lily : How’s it goin’ with swimmer girl? You scare her off with your lovesick puppy eyes yet?

I roll my eyes, thumbs tapping fast.

Me : She’s climbing the walls. Needs to swim. Pool’s closed.

Lily : The river, dummy.

My thumb hesitates mid-air.

The river.

Jake’s river.

Just reading the word makes my stomach lurch. It’s been eight years since I set foot in that water. Since I lost my brother to it. Since I watched my world shatter, piece by piece, and never figured out how to glue it back together.

The thought of Mia swimming there makes my chest tighten.

But then I picture Mia’s face last night. The way she smiled. The way she let herself laugh like she hadn’t in days and how being in the water, hell even just talking about swimming, lights up her entire face.

I can’t let her keep unraveling like this.

The thought of her suffering without her routine feels worse somehow. Another text comes though.

Lily : She's a champion swimmer . The current's not strong this time of year. And it would mean a lot to her.

She's right.

We eat breakfast in silence. She picks at hers, not quite able to fake an appetite. I tell her I need to do something outside, and I leave before she can ask too many questions.

Out back, I grab gloves and a machete from the shed. The old trail down to the river’s been swallowed by weeds and overgrowth, nature reclaiming what I couldn’t bear to look at. Jake and I used to race down this path barefoot, hollering like idiots. After he died, I avoided it like it was cursed.

The blade swings. Branches fall. My breath hitches every time I get closer. But I keep going, thinking of her. Of the peace she finds in water. Of the way she’s been carrying tension in her shoulders like she’s afraid to let go.

I don’t hear her come up behind me.

“What are you doing?” she asks, voice wary.

I turn, breathing hard. She’s watching me, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Clearing a path,” I say, lifting the machete like proof. “To the river.”

Her eyes flick past me to the brush I’ve already cut down, and something shifts in her expression.

“For me?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

She steps closer, slowly, like she’s afraid of spooking me. “Grant… you haven’t been down there since…”

I swallow hard. “You need to swim. And we’ve got water.”

“It’s not that simple. I know what this place means to you.” She says.

“No it’s not,” I agree. “But it’s worth it.”

She’s quiet for a long beat. Then, gently, she places her hand on my arm.

“Grant...” She takes a step closer, her voice softening. “You don't have to do this.”

“I want to,” I insist, turning back to hack at a particularly stubborn branch. “You need to swim. Simple solution.”

I meet her eyes, finding them filled with a concern that makes my throat tight. “It's just water, Mia. And you need it more than I need to avoid it.”

She studies me for a long moment, then nods, a small smile playing at her lips. “Let me help, at least.”

I nod as she walks over to the toolbox, sliding on gloves and grabbing hold of a sickle.

We’ve been clearing this damn path for maybe twenty minutes, but I’m already sweating like I just finished bronc riding in July.

The sun’s high enough now to burn straight through the leaves overhead, and it turns everything into this sticky, shimmering heat.

The kind that clings to skin and slides down spines.

I swing the machete through a stubborn patch of overgrowth, the thunk of steel through brush satisfying as hell. But my focus isn’t on the vines.

It’s on her .

Mia moves beside me, tank top clinging to her back, those little running shorts hugging her hips in a way that should be outlawed.

Every time she lifts her arms to tug a branch free or twist her hair off her neck, my mouth goes dry.

She’s all lean muscle and long legs, sweat glistening at her temples, sliding down the dip of her throat. I try not to stare. I fail, every time.

She catches me looking once. Doesn’t say anything. Just smirks.

Then she starts watching me .

I feel her eyes on my shoulders when I shrug off my flannel and toss it over a branch. The tank underneath sticks to my chest, soaked through, and I catch her gaze drop. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, quick, unthinking.

God help me.

“Hot?” I ask casually, chopping through another branch.

“Ridiculously,” she answers, but her eyes aren’t on the sun—they’re locked on my chest.

My smirk comes without trying. “That why you keep staring at me like I’m a damn popsicle?”

She snorts, but there’s heat behind it. “Trust me, cowboy. If I wanted to lick you, you’d know.”

Fuck .

I swing the blade again, harder this time, more to redirect blood flow than anything else. “That so?” I ask, stepping closer, just enough for our shoulders to brush as we reach for the same low-hanging branch.

She doesn’t move away.

Her skin’s warm, soft, slick with sweat, and for a second I just stand there, not pulling back. Her breath catches. I feel it more than I hear it.

“Seems unfair,” I murmur, voice low, “you get to say shit like that and not expect me to test it.”

Her eyes flick up to mine. There’s a warning there. A dare.

She leans in just slightly, her lips a whisper away from my jaw. “Then maybe I’m testing you .”

I let the branch fall.

The heat between us is wildfire-hot now, pulsing, hungry.

But she steps back, deliberately, fingers brushing mine like a challenge as she does.

“Keep clearing, Taylor,” she says, smirking. “Before the jungle wins.”

Oh, woman. You have no idea what I’m going to do with that attitude.

Together, we clear the remaining brush, working in a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. When the path is finally open, revealing the wide, slow-moving stretch of river, I force myself to stay put rather than retreating back to the house.

Mia steps forward, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the water glittering in the late morning sun.

“It's perfect,” she breathes.

“It's not an Olympic pool,” I warn, trying to keep my voice steady. “But the current's gentle here, and there's a deeper section on the far side that's good for swimming.”

“How deep?” she asks, already kicking off her shoes.

“About twelve feet at the center. Jake and I used to—” I stop, the words catching in my throat.

Her eyes soften. “Used to what?”

I swallow hard. “Used to jump from that rock outcropping over there.” I nod toward it “We’d compete to see who could make the biggest splash.”

Instead of the pity I expect, her face lights up with a mischievous grin. “I bet I could beat your record.”

A startled laugh escapes me. “Is everything a competition with you?”

“Pffft, pretty much.”

When she peels off her tank top, my pulse spikes and my IQ drops by at least fifty points.

She’s not doing it slow—not trying to be seductive—but God, it’s worse that she’s not. It’s so casual. So damn effortless. Like I’m not standing five feet away about to combust.

Her sports bra clings to her like a second skin, slick with sweat, the swell of her breasts rising with every breath. Then come the shorts. They slide down her hips, revealing black cotton underwear that hugs her ass like it was tailored to test a man’s restraint.

I look away. Because if I don’t, I’m going to say something I can’t take back. Or drop to my knees and say it with my tongue.