Page 36 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

The door creaks open, and the second we’re inside, he doesn’t pause.

Doesn’t speak. Just strides straight to the couch like it’s the only place in the world he trusts to hold me.

He lowers me down onto the cushions with a kind of reverence that undoes something deep in my chest—like he’s placing down something breakable.

Then he leans over me, one arm braced beside my shoulder against the couch, the other still resting heavy on my thigh, fingers splayed wide and warm and there .

“Don’t move, Mia” he says, voice rough enough to drag across skin, low enough to vibrate right through my bones. The command sends a shiver down my spine so sharp and involuntary I’m lucky I don’t moan out loud.

His eyes hold mine, and for one suspended, trembling second, I swear the world tilts.

“I’ll get something for your leg,” he adds, almost like he’s forcing the words out through gritted teeth, like touching me longer would break whatever control he’s got left.

Then he’s gone—the moment he vanishes, the air feels colder. Emptier.

He disappears into the kitchen with that same purposeful stride, leaving me perched on the couch, my leg throbbing and my heartbeat still tangled up in how he looked at me just moments ago. That gaze? It wasn't casual. It wasn’t polite. It was a storm barely leashed.

I hear drawers open. Cabinets shut. The freezer door groan. Then the crinkle of a plastic bag and the sharp clink of ice.

He returns like some kind of Cowboy Nightingale—hair damp, shirt still clinging to every muscle, jaw tight with focus. A dish towel in one hand, an ice pack in the other.

“Prop your leg up,” he murmurs, kneeling in front of me like it's his goddamn calling. His voice is low, rough, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me just by being here. Close. Focused. Gentle.

I do as I’m told, letting him slide a cushion beneath my calf, feeling his calloused hands grace by calf and ancle positioning my leg in just the right spot.

Then comes the ice.

The second the cold presses against my skin, I hiss, jolting. “Shit, that’s freezing.”

“Good,” he says, lips twitching into a smirk. “Means it’s working.”

But his eyes? They’re not laughing. They’re locked on my leg, his fingers spread wide on my skin, holding the towel in place, rubbing slow, careful circles over the edge of the muscle like he could soothe it with just touch.

And maybe he can. Because all of me—the ache, the tension, the breathlessness—it’s wrapped around his movements now.

“You gonna breathe again?” he asks without looking up.

“Working on it,” I say, voice thinner than I mean it to be.

His eyes flick up. Catch mine.

And it’s a look that pins me in place. Devours. Worships. Burns.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” I whisper, “and it’s not just my calf that’s gonna need icing.”

That grin of his turns downright sinful. “Princess,” he drawls, “I haven’t even started yet.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s a weak attempt at self-preservation.

He shifts, adjusting the towel, and the brush of his thumb against my bare thigh makes me inhale like I’ve been punched.

“You’re flushed again,” he murmurs.

“You’re kneeling between my legs, Grant,” I shoot back, trying not to sound like I’m two seconds away from combusting.“Kinda hard to stay cool.”

His eyes flicker—like I just lit a match in a room full of gasoline.

“I could say the same, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl laced with something darker. “You think I don’t notice the way you’re trembling every time I touch you?”

He shifts closer, impossibly closer, and the heat coming off his body is a whole new kind of torment. His palm still cradles my calf, but his other hand slides higher—slow, deliberate—until it rests on my thigh. Not obscene. Not quite. But enough to send every nerve ending into a frenzy.

“Grant…” My voice breaks, just a breath and a warning wrapped in one.

He leans in, lips inches from mine, his eyes locked on my mouth like he’s debating claiming it right here, right now.

“Say the word,” he whispers.

“Tell me to back off. Tell me you don’t feel it.” He breathes out.

I open my mouth—to do what, I don’t know—but nothing comes out except a breathless little sound that betrays me completely.

He groans, low and raw, like he’s been holding something back for far too long. His thumb strokes over my inner thigh now, teasing, almost reverent. “Thought so.”

He chuckles, deep and rough, like gravel soaked in bourbon. And before I can decide if I’m going to slap him or climb him like a tree, an alarm rings on his phone.

He glances at the screen and sighs, dropping his head.

“Shit.” A pained look crossing his face. “I have to meet a sponsor in town in 30 minutes then I’m meeting Connor in Wellington, I’ll be out for most of today” his eyes meeting mine and the look on his face almost forlorn.

“Gimme a sec.” He sets the ice in place with practiced ease and rises, but not before brushing my knee with his knuckles. A touch that lingers too long to be innocent.

“I’ll be back,” he says, already moving down the hall, but then he pauses, turns, and scans the room like he’s about to leave me for a damn year.

In less than five minutes, he’s back, changed in fresh wranglers with a crisp white button-down shirt and a baseball cap, his cologne drifting through the air, holding a bottle of water, a can of ginger ale, a granola bar, a pack of sour candies, one of his button-up white shirts, the TV remote, and my laptop.

“Snacks. Screens. Hydration. I’d fluff your pillows but I’m not wearin’ a maid uniform.” he says with a smirk.

I stare at the pile of stuff he puts down beside me.

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with that mischievous cowboy heat that always spells trouble. “Don’t say I never spoil you.” He shoots me a wink with a devilish grin.

“Getting soft on me, Taylor?” I tease, hiding the way my chest aches under the smile.

He shrugs touching his chest. “Only where it counts.” He mutters, then turns for the door.

And just like that, he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, and I’m left with melting ice, an electric thigh, and the scent of him still lingering in the air.

I shift on the couch, carefully adjusting the towel-wrapped ice against my calf. The sting has dulled to a steady ache, but it's nothing compared to the restlessness writhing just under my skin. I grab the TV remote—because what the hell else am I gonna do?

I’m flicking through a few channels before settling on one of those shows where grumpy British guys scream at each other over undercooked risotto. It’s chaos. Distracting. Perfect.

Except not really. Because five minutes in, I’m not watching the screen—I’m staring at the door like it’s about to deliver me a cowboy with a fresh sin to whisper in my ear.

Ugh! Pathetic.

To save what’s left of my dignity, I grab my laptop and open the doc I’ve been ignoring: an outline for the article Bri's breathing down my neck about. “Ten Things City Girls Should Know About Cowboys.” Number one? They smell like sex and woodsmoke and ruin you for all other men.

I type it. Then delete it.

Then type it again.

I shift again, trying to focus, but the cushion still smells like him. Leather and laundry soap and something deliciously masculine. I scowl. I am not one of those girls who loses all higher brain function because a man carried her like a damsel in distress.

...Except maybe I am, because I just popped the last sour candy into my mouth without realizing I’d eaten the whole bag.

My water’s already half-gone. The ginger ale too. Granola bar? Crumbs. Sliding on his button-up shirt and loving the fact that it’s a fresh shirt, but it smells like him.

I glance toward the kitchen. I could hobble, sure. Or—wait for it—I could just wait until Grant comes back and play the injured card again. Not that I care when he’s coming back. Nope. Not at all.

Totally not watching the door again.

I pull up another tab and start reviewing the notes for a potential pitch piece Bri wanted: “Under the Hat: A City Girl's Guide to Decoding Cowboy Speak.” I type a few bullet points, mostly sarcastic, mostly fueled by the smirk on Grant’s face when he said “I haven’t even started yet.”

I hear Grant’s truck coming up the drive—loud, obvious, and about as subtle as the man himself. Of course he’d announce his return like a damn parade the second I let my guard down.

I don’t even look. Won’t give it that satisfaction. I keep my eyes locked on the TV like the last three minutes of this cooking competition are suddenly life or death.

But my heart? That traitor surges like it just got caught skinny-dipping in expectation.

Nope. Not waiting for him. Not thinking about how his shirt clung to him after the river, how his dark brown eyes looked at me like I was something worth worshipping and ruining in the same damn breath. Not. Thinking. About. That.

The front door opens with that same lazy creak I should be used to by now, but it still pulls my spine taut like a bowstring. I keep my eyes on the screen. Barely breathing.

“Hey,” comes the voice, all rough and casual.

I glance over—quick, neutral, casual. Except it’s anything but.

“Hey yourself” I breathe.

He’s holding a small white pharmacy bag in one hand, keys still hooked on his finger, like he just bolted out the truck door, mission-first. He looks down my body and the corner of his lips turn up as he sees me in his shirt.

Suddenly, my damn throat’s tight for reasons I can’t explain without sounding like the kind of woman who writes cowboy poetry in her sleep.

He drops the bag on the coffee table in front of me, then sits down on the large coffee table in front of the couch. That same easy sprawl. But there’s a focus in his eyes that buzzes under my skin.

“I grabbed some Deep Heat,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “It’s not magic, but the warmth’ll help loosen the muscle. Better than ice now that the swelling’s gone down.”