Page 49 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

The fairgrounds are packed by the time we arrive that evening, the air thick with the scent of dust, livestock, and fried foods. Lights strung between poles cast a warm glow over the crowds as the sun begins to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.

Mia walks beside me, taking everything in with wide eyes. She's wearing a pair of jeans borrowed from Lily and one of my flannel shirts knotted at her waist, looking so at home it makes my heart stutter.

“This is bigger than I expected,” she says, dodging a group of children racing past with cotton candy. “Do all these people know you?”

“Most of them,” I admit, nodding to a couple of ranchers who call out greetings. “Small town, remember? And the Taylor family is kind of a fixture.”

She looks at me with newfound appreciation. “You're like rodeo royalty, aren't you?”

“Please don't say that where my Dad can hear,” I groan. “His ego's big enough already.”

We make our way through the crowds toward the competitors' area.

I should be focused on preparation—mentally reviewing my technique, stretching my shoulder, getting in the zone.

Instead, I'm hyperaware of Mia beside me, of the way her fingers occasionally brush mine as we walk, of the admiring glances she draws from men we pass.

“Grant Taylor!” A booming voice cuts through the noise. Dad emerges from the crowd, wearing his ridiculous lucky rodeo shirt that Mama threatens to burn every year. “There's my champion! And Mia! Look at you, embracing the cowgirl life!”

“Hardly,” Mia laughs, but she submits to Dad's enthusiastic hug. “Just supporting the local talent.”

“Well, you picked the best,” Dad says proudly, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Must say he’s looking mighty relaxed these days” pure amusement playing on his face.

Before Mia can answer, I interrupt. “Well, this has been great, but I need to check in,” I say, grabbing Mia's hand. “We'll catch up later.”

Dad laughs, waving us off. “Fine, fine. Save it for when she's family.”

I feel Mia tense beside me and curse my father's lack of fucking filter. We're barely defining what we are to each other, and he's practically planning a wedding.

“Sorry about that,” I mutter as we move toward the registration booth. “Dad doesn't believe in subtlety.”

“I've noticed,” she says, but there's amusement in her tone rather than discomfort. “It's actually refreshing. My father's the opposite—everything important goes unsaid.”

I squeeze her hand. “Well, in the Taylor family, nothing goes unsaid. Mostly to our embarrassment.”

After checking in, I lead Mia to the competitors' area where riders are preparing. Some stretch, others pray, all with the same intensity in their eyes—the focus of men about to face down a ton of angry muscle.

“Grant!” Mason appears, swaggering over with his riding vest half unzipped and that cocky glint in his eye. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them over one shoulder like he owns the place.

“About time you showed up brother.”

“Had to give the competition a head start,” I joke, bumping his shoulder with my fist. “Mason, you remember Mia.”

Mason studies her with that quiet intensity that unnerves most people. “Your mermaid. Hard to forget.”

“Ha! Good to see you again,” Mia says, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I hear you're pretty good at this bull riding thing too.”

“Pretty good,” Mason agrees with a modest shrug. “Your boy here is better, though. When his shoulder isn't held together with duct tape and wishful thinking.”

I roll my eyes. “My shoulder's fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Mason's gaze flicks meaningfully to where I'm unconsciously rotating my arm.

“But looks like today’s the day I finally beat your ass at bull riding,” he says, clapping a dusty hand to my back.

“Keep dreaming,” I mutter, rolling my shoulder out.

His eyes flick down to my shoulder. “That’s why you’re wincing.”

“I'm not—” I start to protest, but Mia's concerned look stops me.

“Is your shoulder worse?” she asks, her hand touching my arm gently.

“It's fine,” I insist, though the dull throb tells a different story. “Just a little stiff.”

Mason watches our exchange with interest, his gaze moving between us. “You should see his medical file,” he tells Mia. “Thick as a phone book.”

“Thanks for that,” I mutter.

Mason grins and slaps my back again. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the paramedics are on standby when I take the win.”

He turns, starts heading off, then spins back around like something just hit him. “Damn, forgot my helmet! I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?” he shouts over the rising roar of the crowd before disappearing into the chaos.

“Why do you keep doing it?” Mia asks suddenly. “If it hurts you? If it's dangerous?”

The question catches me off guard, not because it's unexpected, but because I sense she genuinely wants to understand, not judge.

I glance around at the bustling preparation area, the other riders, the distant roar of the crowd. “Can we talk somewhere quieter?”

She nods, and I lead her to a relatively secluded spot behind the chutes, where the noise of the crowd is muffled and we can hear each other without shouting.

“Bull riding is...” I pause, searching for words that don't sound trite. “When I'm on that bull, for eight seconds, everything else disappears. All the guilt, all the 'what-ifs' about Jake, all the pressure of being a Taylor. It's just me and the animal and pure survival instinct.”

Her eyes never leave mine as I speak, absorbing every word.

“After Jake died, I couldn't function,” I continue, the admission tasting strange on my tongue, because I've never told anyone this. “I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The only time I felt anything was when I was riding. The adrenaline... it was the only thing that cut through the numbness.”

“It was your coping mechanism,” she says softly.

“Yeah.” I nod, grateful for her understanding. “Same as swimming is for you, I think.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You said it yourself—water connects you to your mom. But I think it's more than that. When you're swimming, you're in control in a way you couldn't be during her accident. You're mastering the element that took her from you.”

Mia is quiet for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I never thought of it that way, but... I guess…you're right.” She steps closer, her hand coming to rest on my chest. “We're both still trying to make peace with water, aren't we? You by avoiding it, me by claiming it.”

“Looks that way,” I agree, covering her hand with mine. “Maybe we're not so different after all.”

“Maybe not.” She looks up at me and the look in her eyes does more to my insides than any passionate kiss.

She pats my chest and smiles up at me. The kind of smile that says she sees me—all of me—and isn’t running.

The kind that undoes a man without a single word, and stitches him back together in the same breath.

“Now go ride your bull, cowboy. Show me what eight seconds of freedom looks like.”

I press my forehead to hers briefly, drawing strength from her presence. “Yes, ma'am.”

When I finish signing in, I grab my chute assignment and bull name—because yeah, that’s a thing—then step back out into the fading sunlight, scanning the crowd until I spot her.

Mia.

She’s got her camera up, practically glowing with excitement as she snaps photos of everything that moves. She’s in full travel writer mode, crouched low by the fence to catch an angle, eyes sharp behind the lens like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.

And the prey?

Mason.

He’s leaned up against the rail like he’s modeling for a “Hot Firefighters of the Rodeo Circuit” calendar. Laid-back grin, arms crossed, and that easy charm he doesn’t even try to wield but somehow still floors people with.

She says something that makes him laugh—really laugh—and I feel that twist in my chest.

It’s stupid. He’s Mason. My best friend, my neighbour. Practically my brother. Hell, he’s saved my ass more times than I can count. There’s no reason to go all caveman over a couple of pictures and a harmless laugh.

Except then she pulls out her phone.

And I see him give her his number.

My stomach tightens like I just got cinched into a too-tight bronc rigging. It’s fast, innocent, probably about the article—but that doesn't stop the flicker of heat crawling up my neck. That doesn’t stop the little voice in the back of my mind whispering: You waited too long. She’s not yours.

I force myself to take a deep breath and stroll over like I haven’t just watched my girl—no, not my girl—type another man’s number into her phone.

“Everything good over here?” I ask, casual as hell. Maybe too casual.

Mia flashes me a grin, cheeks a little flushed. “Just getting some behind-the-scenes gold. Mason’s a pro.”

“That’s one word for it,” I mutter, giving Mason a look that says I saw the whole damn thing. He doesn’t flinch. Just lifts a brow and shrugs like, What?

“You’re looking limber,” he says, nodding toward the competitor tents. “Shoulder holding up?”

“Feels good,” I say. “Focused.”

He gives a short nod, then claps my shoulder. “Kick ass out there, man.”

“Always.”

He saunters off like nothing happened, and I should let it go.

But when I glance at Mia again—her mouth still curved, her eyes still dancing—I wonder how much of that glow is from me…and how much of it might be from someone else.

She turns to face me. “Something on your mind cowboy?” Mia’s voice is pure honey with a bite of tequila. She stops in front of me, cocking a hip, eyes narrowed just enough to let me know she’s already read me like a book.

I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Nah. Just thinking through the ride.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her lips twitch. “Because your ‘I’m focused’ face usually doesn’t include that little muscle twitch riiight there.” She taps my jaw where it’s clenched tight. “And that green-eyed gremlin look doesn’t suit you, cowboy.”

I huff out a short laugh, caught. “Didn’t know I was so obvious.”