Page 45 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

Mia won't be up for hours. Not even Olympic swimmers torture themselves this early.

In the kitchen, I brew a cup of coffee strong enough to raise the dead, sipping it black as I go through my stash of carefully hoarded supplies.

Laminated distance markers, training signs I printed and laminated at the Wellington PR office, under the guise of “marketing collateral.” Folks there think I’m running a calf-branding workshop.

Close enough. I gather the gear I hunted down like a backwoods scavenger.

A few pieces of equipment that took some creative searching to locate.

I even labelled the bags. I don’t want to talk about it.

It's been one week since Mia and I had our delicious swim together and I can still taste her on my tongue. She’s been busy training at the river every day and it’s amazing how natural she fits here already.

Her shiny boots pile next to my work boots by the door; her shampoo smells like coconut and clings to my towel.

In the evenings she trades river laps for gossip with Lily and Annie at the Caffeine Drip—all three of them bent over lattes, like old friends, plotting something that makes them cackle loud enough to shake the pastry case.

Twice this week she’s ridden shotgun to dinner at my parents’ place.

Mama sets an extra plate without asking.

Dad winks over brisket. They don’t say a word; they don’t have to. That look says, About damn time, son.

Things with Mia are damn near perfect. She even planned a “reverse date”—her words—built for me from the boots up: steak grilled over an open fire, cold beers on the tailgate, old country music humming low, and slow dancing beneath a sky full of stars.

No pressure, no big talks. Just her, fully in my world, wordless ways that mean everything.

Next day, she tried baking me a cake from scratch—absolutely butchered it.

Lopsided, sunken, sweet as hell. She still presented it like it deserved a prize, wearing a glittery tiara and a triumphant grin.

I ate it with a straight face and told her it was gourmet.

Then I got that chocolate icing exactly where I wanted it—on all my most favorite parts of her body.

And I made sure I cleaned it up slow. Real slow.

Later that night, she handed me a folded piece of paper, cheeks pink like she’d just wrangled a bull topless in front of a crowd.

I raised a brow, half-expecting it to be a shopping list. Nope.

It was a poem. A poem —written by Mia, titled (and I quote), “Ode to a Cowboy and His Distractingly Large Biceps.”

It was ridiculous—in the best damn way. Four stanzas of pure chaos: something about how his shoulders were carved by angels who bench-press cattle, how his jeans should be illegal in five states, and how his lasso wasn’t the only thing that left her breathless.

There was a line about his “jaw sharper than her eyeliner” and another that claimed he “rode her harder than taxes hit the middle class.”

It was sweet, hilarious, and had just enough filth in it to guarantee I’d never read it in front of my parents.

I read it twice. Then pulled her into my lap and kissed her like she just solved world peace with cowboy smut. Because hell if that poem didn’t knock the wind clean outta my lungs.

And as if things couldn’t get any better, there’s the passport “delay.”

The State Department’s overseas server crash—some genius tripped a power relay in D.C.

, froze every foreign-issued passport in the system.

Phones jammed, embassies scrambling, expedited applications tossed in limbo.

Bad luck for most travelers…but it buys Mia another three, maybe four weeks right here.

Coincidence? I don’t buy it. Feels like fate’s leaning on the clock, giving me a fighting chance to show her why this ranch—and maybe this cowboy—could be home.

I keep catching myself grinning at nothing, tasting river water that still reminds me of her. And each day the mail doesn’t bring that little envelope, I thank whatever glitchy server keeps her exactly where I want her: under my roof, in my arms, and just maybe in my future.

My phone buzzes with a text back from Mason.

Mason: You’ve lost your damn mind, Taylor.

I snort and type back.

Me: Probably. Still coming to help?

Three dots appear, then:

Mason: On my way. But for the record, this is the most elaborate way to get laid I've ever witnessed.

Me : The romance budget was approved by the Board of One. Bring coffee.

I pocket my phone. This isn't about sex. Okay, it’s not just about sex.

That is... yeah, incredible. But this? This is about making her feel like she’s meant to be here.

Valued. If she’s going to leave—and she will eventually, she says she will—I just want to give her one hell of a reason to hesitate.

Twenty minutes later his truck rattles up, headlights off, shirt half-buttoned, hair arguing with gravity. He steps out, squints at the pile of lane buoys and turn-boards in the bed of my truck, and whistles low.

“Morning, Sunshine,” I say, as he hands me a thermos. “Ready to commit minor engineering violations?”

“You know she's still leaving, right?” he asks, helping me lift a weighted buoy.

“Appreciate the pep talk,” I mutter, more sharply than intended, lugging a weighted buoy. “Look, I know she's leaving. I'm not building her a house…yet.”

“No, just a professional training facility,” he deadpans. “I don’t want to see you hurt, man—going through all this trouble.”

I set the buoy down with a thud. “Trouble? This is a grand gesture with a side of cardio. And if I recall, you told me not to half-ass it. Consider this full-ass.”

He snorts. “Full-ass, huh? Bold strategy, Cotton.”

“Look, Mason—she’s got one foot out the door. I can’t chain her here, but I can give her a reason to slow down on the way out.”

“And if she still goes?”

“Then she goes knowing exactly how wanted she is,” I say. “Can’t lose points for effort.”

He studies me for a long beat, then nods and cracks a smile. “Growth. I like it.” He slaps my shoulder. “Let's go build your mermaid’s swimmin' hole.”

I toss him a length of rope. “Grab the post-driver. And try not to ruin my romantic momentum.”

He shrugs, already turning to the truck.

“Roger that. Wouldn’t dream of it.” he says, climbing into the bed.

“But if this ends with you marrying a world champion and me giving a best-man speech? I’m opening with ‘Remember when Grant tried to hide a mile-long hard-on in wet jeans?’”

He wags his phone. “Ryan couldn’t wait to share that one—said it was the highlight of his week. Ain’t nothing private in this town, brother.”

“Do that,” I grunt, hefting the post-driver, “and I’m signing you up for the bouquet toss in chaps.”

He laughs, shoulders a buoy, and we head for the river—two idiots in the dark, building a dream the whole town will hear about by lunchtime. He’s damn right, ain’t nothing private around here, but for once, I don’t mind.

The sky is barely beginning to lighten as we reach the river, casting everything in a soft blue glow. I lead Mason to the areas I've already cleared, explaining my plan.

We lay down markers every 25 meters. Laminated signs say things like “The water is your home” and “Don't count laps, make every lap count.”

Mason reads one aloud and raises an eyebrow.

“You been googling swimmer quotes?”

I grunt. “A bit.”

“A bit,” Mason repeats skeptically, but there's no judgment in his tone, just a kind of bemused wonder.

“You annotated them. There’s footnotes.”

I hammer in a stake a little harder than necessary. “Wanted it to be right.” Trying my best to sound casual.

Truth is, I’ve spent hours each night reading about interval training, stroke technique, lactate thresholds. I know more about flip turns and kick drills than any man should unless he's trying out for Tokyo.

“Jake used to have markers every twenty-five meters,” I explain, unrolling the first waterproof distance sign.

Mason watches me carefully. “You remember a lot about his swimming.”

“I remember everything about him.” I hammer the first stake into the ground. “Used to time him while Dad was working. He was good, you know? Might've gone somewhere with it if...”

I trail off, unable to finish the thought. Mason understands, “I miss him too brother”.

Mason watches me quietly for a while, then says, “You know what's wild? You're down here, ankle-deep in river mud, grinning like a lunatic. You haven't set foot near this river in eight years.”

I pause. The hammer in my hand stills. He's right. I hadn't realized the smile stretched on my face, until he said it.

“She’s good for you, man. You needed someone to shake up the cobwebs. Maybe even give you a reason to look forward instead of back.”

He pats me on the back and takes another marker, moving down the riverbank.

We work methodically as dawn breaks, placing distance markers at precise intervals along the swimming path.

I've mapped it out to create a 400-meter loop that utilizes both the calm section and the bend where the current provides resistance.

Near what would be the starting point, I install a waterproof clock.

By sunrise, the river looks like something out of a sports documentary. We’ve got lane ropes, resistance cords, even a tempo trainer clipped to a tree. I step back and exhale, staring at the finished setup.

“You think she’ll like it?” I ask, side eyeing by best friend.

Mason gives a low whistle.

“She better. Otherwise I’m stealing this for my morning workouts.”

Back at the house, he heads to the fire station for his shift, still laughing about my “romantic tendencies”.

I promise to call him before the rodeo tomorrow tonight.

He’s headed to the fire station for a 10-hour shift, leaving me alone with my nerves—and an empty kitchen that suddenly feels too quiet.