Page 42 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

He takes another swing his bicep flexing.

Oh my.

Ovaries, be still now.

I try to focus on my article, I really do—but my eyes keep drifting to him.

I’m supposed to be writing about “Finding unexpected connections in unplanned destinations,” but all I’ve found is the urgent need to fan myself and climb the muscular, sweat dripping, hardworking man in front of me like a tree.

There's something hypnotic about the rhythmic swing of the machete, the way his forearm flexes with every swing, the play of muscles beneath his skin.

I force myself to look away and type something, anything.

“Connection blooms when you least expect it—”

Lies. What’s blooming is my need to jump this man before he trims another fern.

I clear my throat and drag my eyes back to my screen. I type three words and delete them immediately. He swings again. My thighs clench like traitors.

He grunts— grunts —as he moves a fallen branch, biceps flexing like they’ve been waiting for this moment their whole lives.

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I nearly cry.

Every inch of him glistens in the sun, and all I can think is, that body was on top of me last night.

That mouth was between my legs. That voice whispered my name like it was a confession.

God help me.

“You're staring,” he calls without turning around, amusement evident in his voice.

“I'm observing,” I correct him, chin lifted like I have any dignity left. “Writer's habit.”

He pauses, leans on the machete, and glances back at me with that slow, cocky smile that could short-circuit a nun. “And what are you observing, exactly?”

“The local wildlife,” I deadpan. “Fascinating specimen of shirtless Texan cowboy in his natural habitat.”

Grant laughs, the sound rich and low and vibrating somewhere entirely inappropriate in my body. He strolls toward me, throwing the machete to the side and wiping his brow with the back of his hand—unnecessarily sexy, if you ask me.

His proximity makes my skin prickle with awareness. “And what are your findings so far , Professor?”

I bite my lip to keep from giggling.

“Still gathering data,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders, fighting a smile. “Initial observations indicate dangerously high levels of distraction…but results are... promising.”

He drops onto the blanket beside me, close enough that my skin reacts like it’s been called to attention.

“Anything I can do to help your research?” he drawls, brushing his fingers lightly along mine. Electricity. Literal electricity courses through me.

“You could start by explaining what you're doing, besides murdering weeds in a suspiciously heroic manner.”

“I gesture toward the newly cleared area along the riverbank. “This seems like a lot of work for a Friday afternoon”.

Something flickers across his face—vulnerability, maybe.

“I noticed you've been swimming diagonal patterns.

Figured you were trying to create resistance training, but the current isn't strong enough here.” He points toward a bend in the river.

“Over there, though, the water narrows and speeds up. Could be better for what you need.”

I stare at him, caught off guard by his thoughtfulness. My heart thuds loud enough I worry he can hear it.

“You noticed my training patterns?”

He shrugs, but I can see the slight flush on his cheeks. “I pay attention.”

“To me,” I clarify, needing to hear him say it.

His eyes meet mine, steady and sincere. “To you, always.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest—something dangerous and thrilling all at once. I blink fast. Dangerous territory, population: me.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That's... incredibly thoughtful.”

“I was thinking,” he shrugs and continues, fiddling with a twig like he hasn’t just spun my entire emotional compass.

“If you're serious about getting the most out of your training here, we could set up different zones. The bend for resistance, the deeper pool for diving practice, even the shallows for recovery exercises.”

“You’d do that? For me?”

His gaze flicks to mine, heat behind it. “Mia, I’d do a hell of a lot more than that for you.”

My brain flatlines. If I had panties on under this sundress, they’d be halfway to surrender by now.

The simple honesty in his tone steals my breath.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken possibilities hanging between us.

“You look different today,” he finally says, studying my face.

“Different how?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Relaxed. Maybe satisfied. Huh, wonder why that is?” That grin now in full force—cocky bastard.

I roll my eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully. “Subtle, Taylor. Real subtle.”

“Not trying to be subtle darlin’.” He captures my hand, interlacing our fingers. “Seeing you like this—relaxed, smiling—it suits you.”

I should pull away. I should maintain some distance, protect myself from getting too attached. Instead, I find myself squeezing his hand. “Maybe I have reason to be relaxed.”

His expression softens and his voice drops. “I'd like to keep giving you reasons.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my heart stumble. This is dangerous territory—the kind that leads to hopes and expectations and eventual disappointment. It’s too much, so I do what I do best- deflect with humor.

I choke on a laugh. “You gonna embroider that on a pillow?”

He leans in, mock-serious. “Damn right. Right next to my hand embroidered quilt that reads 'Live, Laugh, Lick.'“

I’m still in a complete fit of laughter when he brings our joined hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles. Soft. Tender. Terrifying.

Yet looking at him now, with the sun highlighting the amber flecks in his eyes and his hand warm around mine, I can't bring myself to retreat.

“I should get back to my article,” I say, but make no move to reclaim my hand.

“What's it about?” he asks, seemingly content to sit beside me all day.

“Finding unexpected connection in unplanned destinations,” I admit, the irony not lost on either of us.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sounds familiar.”

“Pure coincidence,” I insist, though we both know it's not.

Bringing our joined hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to my knuckles, he chuckles and stands, that fine-ass cowboy swaggering back toward his tools. But before he reaches them, he glances over his shoulder.

“You know what they say about coincidences.”

“And what's that?”

“The universe doesn't believe in them.”

“And Mia?” His turns to face me.

“Yeah?”

His gaze snags mine, a flash of something too honest. “I don’t think it was a mistake, you ending up here. I think it was the first thing the universe’s gotten right in a long time.” He chuckles lightly “Funny how a wrong turn landed you right where you were meant to be.”

My breath catches. I don’t respond.

Because that warmth inside me? The one that feels suspiciously like hope?

It’s rising. Fast.

And I know it’s only a matter of time before it drags me under.

As I watch him return to his work, his words echo in my mind. I'm starting to think I might believe in all that too, and that realization terrifies me more than any high dive or Olympic final ever could.

Because Grant Taylor isn't just getting under my skin. He's working his way into my heart, making me question everything I thought I knew about myself—about what I want, about where I belong.

For someone who's built her entire identity around never staying in one place long enough to form attachments, the thought of wanting to stay is more frightening than any leap I’ve ever jumped.