Page 41 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains as I wake, momentarily disoriented. This isn't the guest room. The sheets beneath me smell like sandalwood and something distinctly male. Grant.

Memories of last night flood my consciousness in vivid detail—his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious. Something worth keeping.

It’s him carrying me from the bathroom, his arms strong and steady as he laid me down on his bed like I was something fragile.

Like he couldn’t bear to let me go. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than inside me, watching every breath I took.

The way his eyes never left mine when he moved over me again, slower this time, as if we had all the time in the world.

As if he wanted to memorize how I looked falling apart beneath him over and over again.

We didn’t speak much.

We didn’t have to.

Every kiss, every touch, every stolen breath was a conversation we weren’t brave enough to say out loud.

And now I’m here, blinking at the morning light, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to walk away from someone who made me feel like that.

I lift a hand to my lips, still tender, still tingling from how thoroughly he kissed me—again and again like he couldn't get enough.

What the hell have I done?

How am I supposed to walk away from someone who looked at me like I was the only thing that made sense in his entire world?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I need to get my head straight.

Because last night wasn’t just sex.

It felt like everything .

And that terrifies me.

The space beside me is empty, the indent of his body still visible on the mattress. I hear movement in the kitchen—the clink of coffee mugs, the low hum of the radio. Domestic sounds that make my heart flutter with something dangerously close to longing.

Slipping from his bed, I tiptoe back to the guest room. My phone shows three missed calls from Brè. Of course. The woman has an uncanny ability to detect intimacy. Like she’s secretly FBI, but for orgasms and attachment issues.

I dial her number, tension coiling in my stomach as it rings.

Pressing the phone to my ear, I brace myself for the Brè storm.

“Finally!” she answers like she’s been pacing the floor since sunrise. “I was starting to think you'd been abducted by sexy cowboys.”

I rub my forehead and let out a groan. “Not abducted. Just... distracted.”

There’s a beat of silence on her end, just long enough for me to dread what’s coming.

“Holy shit. You slept with him, didn’t you.”

I flop onto the edge of the bed, the sheet twisting around my waist. “Is it that obvious?”

“Your voice goes full afterglow when you've had a good orgasm.” She says matter-of-factly. “All soft and husky like a jazz singer who’s just been railed senseless. So, spill Bonney. Exactly how good was it?”

Heat rises to my cheeks as I remember Grant on his knees before me, the intensity in his eyes as he watched me come apart. “It was... memorable.”

“I need more than that, Bonney. I need verbs, adjectives, a color-coded spreadsheet. Don’t be stingy with the smut.” I can practically hear her leaning forward, hungry for gossip.

“We were both... applying muscle cream after I pulled my calf in the river. One thing led to another and—”

“Wait, muscle cream? As in Deep Heat?” Brè interrupts, her voice rising with alarm.

“Yeah.” I say mortified.

Her laughter explodes through the phone. “Please tell me you washed your hands after application!”

“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ and cover my face with my free hand, mortified yet unable to contain my own laughter.

“It was a disaster. We both ended up in the same shower trying to rinse it off, but then there was… a lot of nakedness. And hands. And… I think I may have blacked out from sheer pleasure” I feel the blush run all the way down to my toes.

“Wow.” She sounds genuinely impressed.

I cover my eyes with my hand and let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. “It was... God, Brè. It was everything, not the fire crotch part, of course, but everything after that. Like, I’m-ruined-for-all-other-men level good.”

“Hell yes!” she whoops.

“So? Was it just a one-time yeehaw or a full rodeo?”

I smile despite myself, chewing on my lip. “It wasn’t just the sex. It was the way he looked at me. Like I mattered. Like I was… delicate. And not in a fragile way, more like he didn’t want to rush it.”

“Oh my God, you’re catching feelings.” She says sounding awfully proud.

“No,” I shoot back quickly. Too quickly. “No. I’m not. It was just a moment. A really intense, hot, brain-melting moment.”

“Uh-huh. And how’s that working out for you this morning, Princess Denial?”

I groan and fall backward on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “He’s busy making me coffee, I can hear the mugs. Brè, I think he might be…domestic.”

She gasps. “The horror!”

“Stop it,” I laugh. “I need to get my head on straight. I came here to write an article, not catch a case of the small-town swoons.”

“Oh please,” Brè snorts. “You always do this. You run every time something starts to feel real. Maybe this time you should just... stay.”

“Says the woman who booked a two-year gap year and proceeded to eat, pray, and screw her way through six continents.”

“Excuse you, I saved on accommodation and food costs. That’s called being financially savvy.”

I snort. “You had a boyfriend in every time zone.”

“God forbid a woman be Head of Global Communications,” she says dryly.

“Catch flights, not feelings, my love—unless it’s you.

And don’t blame me—it’s a hereditary condition.

Remember my aunt who dated a plumber, bricklayer, carpenter, landscaper and electrician in perfect order, just to get her house renovated? ”

I laugh so hard I have to sit up. “Man, I envy her co-ordination skills.” I giggle.

“She’s my hero.” Brè muses like a proud fan girl.

We both fall into fits of laughter, the easy kind only two lifelong best friends can share.

But when the laughter fades, there’s a silence. The kind that holds meaning.

“So what happens now?” Brè asks, sounding hopeful.

The question brings me crashing back to reality. “Nothing. I'm still leaving as soon as my passport arrives and I start Olympic training. This doesn't change anything.”

“Doesn't it, though?” Her voice softens. “Mia, I've known you for years. I've never heard you sound like this about a guy before.”

I fidget with the edge of the blanket. “Like what?”

“Like maybe you've found something worth staying for.”

“I can't stay,” I say automatically, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears. “We’re two completely different people on different schedules, my swim career—”

“There are pools in Texas, you know. And you can write from anywhere in the world.”

I stand up, pacing the small confines of the guest room. “It's not that simple.”

“It could be,” she counters. “If you'd let it.” The words hang thick between us.

“Seriously,” Brè says softly now, “if he makes you feel safe, seen and clearly stupidly happy, maybe don’t run this time. Just... just think about it.”

I don’t answer. Because I’m already thinking about it.

Too much.

There's a soft knock on my door, and my pulse immediately quickens.

“I have to go Brè.”

“Take the leap my love” she says softly.

I hesitate, torn between the safety of my carefully planned life and the terrifying unknown that Grant Taylor represents. “I'll... consider it.”

“That's a start.” She makes a kissing sound through the phone. “Go get your cowboy. And no muscle cream mishaps!” She yells through the phone.

I laugh, ending the call.

“Coming!” I yell towards the closed bedroom door.

When I open the door, Grant is standing there with two mugs of coffee, looking unfairly attractive in worn jeans and a fitted t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscles I'd traced with my fingertips on last night.

“Morning,” he says, his voice morning-rough in a way that makes my stomach flip. “Thought you might need this.” He offers me a mug.

“Thanks.” Our fingers brush as I take it, sending electricity up my arm. “I was just... making a call.”

“I heard.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You look good in my bed, by the way.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I should have stayed. I just needed to...”

“Process?” he supplies, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, I get it. This thing between us... it complicates things.”

“Understatement of the year,” I mutter, taking a sip of the coffee. It's perfect—just the right amount of cream and sugar. He's been paying attention.

Grant watches me over the rim of his mug, his eyes warm. “Any regrets?”

“About last night?” I meet his gaze, feeling my pulse quicken. “Not a single one.” I confess, the words coming out strangely easily.

The smile that breaks across his face is worth the admission.

“Good. Me neither.” He shifts, suddenly looking less confident. “I was heading down to the garden to clear away some brush. Want to join me? No pressure to talk about...anything.” His voice dips low, but there’s an unexplainable look in his eyes.

“I should work on my article,” I say, though the thought of fresh air is tempting. “But maybe I'll bring my laptop down there? Change of scenery might help.”

His smile returns. “Perfect.”

***

An hour later, I'm settled on a blanket at the garden edge, my laptop open but largely ignored as I watch Grant work.

He’s methodical in his movements, stripping off his shirt as the morning sun intensifies, revealing this tanned skin and defined muscles that had been pressed against me last night.

Sweat glistens on his back and shoulders as he hacks at undergrowth with practiced efficiency, swinging a machete, a machete , like this is some kind of small-town cowboy survival fantasy I didn’t know I had.

Each swing is smooth, powerful, and honestly a little obscene.

Sir.

What in the actual hell.

This is some kind of weird botanical foreplay. And it’s working.