Page 35 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

My skull is made of concrete.

Or at least, that’s how it feels when I pry one eye open to the hazy gray light bleeding through the curtains. My mouth tastes like tequila and a lifetime of bad decisions. My throat is dry. My head pulses with every heartbeat like my brain’s decided to throw its own rodeo.

I groan, roll over, and regret every drink I let Annie and Lily talk me into last night at The Whiskey Barrel.

There’s a single moment where I consider going back to sleep—but then I remember what day it is.

And sleep isn’t an option anymore.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the lurch in my stomach. My body protests every movement, but I force it into motion, pulling on the swimsuit I left draped over the chair. The house is still silent.

Grant must be sleeping, or maybe out with his brothers already. I don’t let myself wonder if he thought about me last night after what he whispered in my ear. I can’t. Not today.

I don’t bother with shoes.

Stepping out into the stillness, barefoot, I feel the cool dew dampening my skin. The porch creaks beneath my weight, and I follow the trail Grant cleared days ago—his silent gift to me, though neither of us ever really said that out loud.

The river awaits, shrouded in a thin veil of mist that drifts low like ghostly fingers over the surface. It’s different in the morning. Still. Sacred. A place untouched by the noise of the world.

And today of all days, I need that silence.

The water welcomes me like an old friend as I slide beneath its surface. I need this—the weightlessness, the escape.

Eleven years ago today, my mother took her last breath. Now, I seek life in the same element that claimed hers.

I've been coming here every day since Grant cleared the path, but never this early. Never when the world is still sleeping.

I push off from the bank and glide through the cool water, my strokes measured and precise. Olympic training demands discipline, but this morning isn't only about medal counts or qualifying times. It's about connection—to her, to myself, to memories that grow more distant with each passing year.

I flip onto my back, staring at the sky as it transitions from charcoal to lavender. My mother used to say you could tell the day's weather by the color of dawn. Lavender meant peace.

“I miss you,” I whisper to the air, words immediately carried away by the breeze.

Diving deep, I hold my breath, suspended in the middle depths of the river.

This is part of my training—expanding lung capacity, finding comfort in that burning moment when instinct screams for air but discipline keeps you submerged.

I've always found a strange solace in this space between necessity and choice.

My lungs begin to ache, a familiar burn that I lean into rather than fight. Ten more seconds. Nine. Eight.

Something disrupts the water above me—a splash, violent and unexpected. Before I can react, hands grab my shoulders, yanking me upward with desperate strength. My body breaks the surface, and I gasp automatically, disoriented by the sudden change.

“Mia! Jesus Christ!”

Grant's face hovers inches from mine, panic etched into every line. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his t-shirt clinging to his chest—he's fully clothed and completely soaked.

“What are you doing?” I sputter, treading water as I push wet hair from my face.

His breathing is ragged, eyes wild. “You weren't moving. You were just—floating down there. Not swimming. Not moving.” He repeats, a panicked look in his eyes.

Understanding dawns. “I was holding my breath. Training technique.” I study his face, realization hitting me like a physical blow. “Wait—you're in the water.”

Grant seems to notice it too for the first time, his eyes darting around as if suddenly aware of where he is. His face pales.

“You're in the river,” I repeat, softer this time. Holding my hand to his chest, feeling his frantic heartbeat beating in his chest.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I thought you were drowning.” Shaking his head “I just—”

The weight of that statement—of what it means for him to be chest-deep in the water he's avoided for eight years—makes my heart stumble. “You got in the water for me.”

“I just reacted,” he says, but we both know it's more than that. Much more.

We're treading water in the middle of the river, his jeans still on, making it probably heavy and hard to move in, yet he's focused entirely on me. Something warm unfurls in my chest.

“I'm sorry I scared you,” I say, reaching out to touch his cheek. “I'm fine. Really.”

His hand covers mine, holding it against his chest. “What were you doing out here so early?” he asks.

The question I've been dreading. I could deflect, give some half-truth about training schedules or enjoying the sunrise. But Grant's eyes, still tinged with residual fear, demand honesty.

“It's the anniversary,” I admit, my voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of water. “Eleven years ago today, my mother drowned.”

His expression shifts from concern to understanding. “Mia...”

“It's okay,” I say quickly. “I'm okay. Being in the water on this day—it's my way of staying connected to her. Sounds crazy, right?”

Instead of responding, Grant pulls me closer, his arms encircling my waist beneath the water. We're floating together now, his legs occasionally brushing mine as we keep ourselves afloat.

“It's not crazy,” he says finally. “After Jake died, I would sit on the porch every evening at sunset because that was his favorite time of day. I couldn't go near the water, but I could watch the sky turn the same colors he loved.”

I rest my forehead against his, our bodies drifting gently with the current. “We're quite the pair, aren't we? Both haunted by water in completely opposite ways.”

“Yet here we are,” he murmurs, “in it together.”

His choice of words—the implication that we're “together” in any sense—sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool morning water.

“You should probably get out,” I say, trying—and failing—to keep my voice neutral as I watch Grant in the water, clothes clinging to his body in a way that should be illegal. “You’re fully dressed, and your boots are probably ruined.”

He looks down slowly, like he’s just now realizing he’s in the river wearing denim and leather. Then he grins.

“Worth it.” Shooting me a wink.

God help me, this man.

We start toward the riverbank. His movements are slow but sure, confidence threading through every stroke.

Water beads off his shoulders, runs down his forearms, he slicks the dark strands of his hair back from his face.

I should be focused on my footing or literally anything else, but I’m not.

I’m watching him like I’m starving and he’s the last damn thing on the menu.

Then I take one step forward and my foot slips off a rock, slick with moss.

White-hot pain lances up my calf.

“Ahhh!” I yelp, stumbling sideways.

Grant’s there before the echo fades—arm around my waist, steady and strong and warm despite the chill in the air.

“What happened?” His voice is low, alert. The teasing gone now, replaced with pure concern. Or something else I can’t name.

“My calf,” I grit out, wincing as I try to shift weight onto it. “Pulled a muscle, I think.”

His brows draw together for half a second before he dips and lifts me like I weigh nothing.

“Grant,” I protest, arms wrapping around his neck out of instinct.

“I can walk myself.” I say through winching.

He gives me that maddening half-smile—the one that makes me want to kiss it straight off his face. “Sure you can. But humor me, Princess.”

God, the nickname shouldn’t make my stomach flip. But it does. Everything about him does.

He walks us further up the riverbank, boots squelching with every step, his jeans soaked and molding to those thighs that already haunt too many of my late-night thoughts.

I’m hyper-aware of everything—the way his fingers spread over my thigh to hold me steady, the flex of muscle under my palm where I grip his shoulder, the faint heat radiating from him despite the water still dripping from his shirt.

And his scent. He should smell like wet denim and dirt. But he smells like heat and pine and something uniquely Grant—something that makes my head spin.

“For the record,” I murmur, breath catching as my chest brushes his, “I wasn’t actually drowning. I was doing fine before my knight in waterlogged denim decided to swoop in.”

He chuckles, deep and low, and it vibrates through my whole body. “Noted. Next time I’ll let you practice drowning in peace.”

Is snort. “It’s called static apnea,” I shoot back, unable to help the smirk tugging at my lips. “Competitive breath holding.”

He tilts his head, eyes full of that mischievous light that always spells trouble. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Says the man who rides angry bulls for fun.”

He smirks and glances down at me, and it’s like the air thickens.

His eyes soften, but there’s heat in them too—a weight, a gravity that makes my breath catch.

Like he’s seeing every inch of me, and not just the soaked, mildly injured version.

Like he’s cataloguing the curve of my jaw, the damp strands of hair stuck to my temple, the way my pulse jumps every time he looks at me like that.

I could close the gap between us. I could tilt my head just slightly and meet his mouth. I want to. God, I want to.

But I don’t.

He clears his throat “Maybe I should carry you around more often. You’re all flushed and breathy.”

“I stretched a muscle,” I say, refusing to meet his eyes. “That’s why I’m breathy.”

He shifts his grip, tightening his arm around me. “Sure it is.”

When we reach the back door, Grant shifts me higher in his arms—like I weigh nothing, like I belong there—and frees one hand just long enough to twist the knob open. His grip tightens again instantly, possessive, protective, and scorching hot through the thin fabric of my swimsuit.