Page 52 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

The late morning sun filters through the windows as I rummage through Lily's duffel bag of borrowed swimwear. She’d dropped it off yesterday at the Caffeine Drip while we were catching up with Annie—handing it over like she was dealing contraband, eyes darting around dramatically as if someone might arrest her for smuggling string bikinis.

“Proper Texas swimming attire,” she whispered, like it was a classified mission.

“You cannot keep showing up in that Olympic-issued granny suit.”

I’d laughed so hard my coffee nearly shot out my nose, but honestly? She wasn’t wrong.

Somehow, in the space of just a few weeks, the three of us—me, Lily, and Annie—have become the kind of friends that feel like forever.

The kind you’d call to hide a body or pre-screen your texts to a cowboy you’re not supposed to be falling for.

We gossip, we eat pastries like it’s cardio, and they both seem weirdly invested in my love life, which I pretend to hate but secretly love.

I refrain from telling Lily how much her brother likes chairs… specifically being one. Hee hee.

I’m elbow-deep in Lily’s duffel bag, scouring through swimwear—which mostly looks like dental floss and a prayer—when my fingers brush past a red bikini top-Triangle cut. Barely lined. More string than sense.

And here I thought they said everything’s bigger in Texas.

There’s a note from Lily attached to it —”If Grant sees you in this and doesn’t combust on the spot, I’ll be shocked. Go get him, tiger.”

I blink. “Absolutely not,” I mutter, shaking my head like I can dislodge the image forming. “Not today, Satan.”

I chuck it aside, the top landing with a soft slap on the bedspread.

“Not happening, Lily,” I say to the empty room. And yet my eyes betray me, drifting back to that scandalous pile of red and imagining how it might look against my skin. No, how Grant would look at me with it on.

A knock at the door makes me jump.

“Mia?” Grant’s voice floats on the other side, casual and deep, that perfect brand of slow drawl that always melts something dangerously low in my spine.

“Come in!” I call out.

The door creaks open and there he is—Grant Taylor, all six-foot-three of smug, infuriating heat—leaning one shoulder against the doorframe.

His eyes find mine and a small smile plays across his face. “I'm heading into Wellington for a meeting. Need anything while I'm out?”

My stomach does that ridiculous flip it always does at the sound of his voice.

“I'm good. How long will you be gone?”

“Couple hours.” Then, with zero warning and all the casual confidence of a man who knows exactly what he's doing, he adds, “And baby, when I get back, we’re moving your things into my room. I need you in my bed from now on.”

Just—boom. Like he’s talking about cloud coverage or checking the weather. Meanwhile, my brain short-circuits so hard I forget how to blink.

He tips his head, utterly unbothered, and tacks on like it’s an afterthought, “Also, there’s lunch in the fridge if you get hungry.”

Oh cool, yeah. Let me just nibble on a turkey wrap while my frontal lobe tries to reboot from that verbal detonation.

“Thanks,” I say, voice weirdly high-pitched, brain very much not operating on oxygen.

His eyes flick from me to the bikini now sprawled across the bed.

And sweet hell, that slow grin he gives me?

That’s not polite. That’s a promise.

“You know,” he says, voice rougher now, eyes locked on that red scrap like it personally insulted him, “I would give just about anything to see you in that later...”

He comes closer—slow, deliberate steps that feel more like a hunt than a stroll—and then he’s right in front of me, his body heat wrapping around mine before he even touches me.

My mouth goes dry.

“Just so I can drag the strings down nice and slow with my teeth and taste you until you forget your own name,” he adds, tracing his finger slowly down my shoulder, his voice a shade lower now, thick with suggestion.

My knees threaten mutiny as a shiver runs though me.

“Grant,” I whisper, but it’s not a protest.

He lowers his lips to mine and kisses me like he’s starved. Like I’m water in the desert and he’s been crawling through heat for days. His other hand tangles in my hair, pulling me deeper into him, like he could erase time and geography and every piece of sense I have left.

By the time he pulls back, I’m dizzy. Breathless.

Wrecked.

He studies me for a second, eyes sweeping my face like he’s trying to memorize it.

Then he steps back, a hand dragging down his face like he's physically wrestling his control back into place.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I actually came in here to tell you something else.”

I blink, still catching up. “What?”

He groans softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I... don’t remember. Seeing you, thinking of you in that bikini, then kissing you— wiped my damn brain clean.”

I laugh, brushing my fingers over my tingling lips. “You’re lucky I won’t hold it against you.”

“Oh, I fully count on you to hold a lot of something against me later,” he tosses back with a wink, already backing out of the room.

He turns toward the hallway, and— hell —the way his ass fits in those jeans is pure perfection.

“You’re ridiculous,” I call after him, still breathless.

He pauses just past the doorway, and—hell—the man has the audacity to glance over his shoulder with a cocky grin. “Darlin’, if being ridiculous gets me that kiss and a front-row seat to that bikini? Then buckle up, ‘cause I’m about to win gold in that damn event.”

A cackle escapes me as he walks down the hall.

Then he turns—without looking back—he tosses over his shoulder, “In fact, I’m gonna spend the rest of the day imagining how fast I could untie that bikini with my teeth.”

I shake my head and chuckle as his footsteps fade, and moments later I hear his truck rumble to life outside.

And just like that, the house feels too quiet.

Since our night together in the shower, there's been a shift between us—a delicious, terrifying intimacy I can't quite name.

Sighing, I decide to abandon my search for a decent swimsuit or my spare one and I wander into the kitchen instead, open the fridge, stare into it like it might offer life advice. It doesn't. Just leftover brisket, a turkey sandwich and a suspicious jar of pickled jalapenos.

With a groan, I shut the door and lean on the counter, unable to think about eating food right now. I should write. I should swim. I should do anything besides stand here thinking about the way Grant's lips felt on mine and his calloused hands on my waist.

I bite my lip.

Distraction. I need a distraction.

Grant mentioned he’d tucked away some of my things in his office when he cleared out the cottage. Not just my spare swimsuit, but maybe also my camera tripod, or my bag of travel adapters, which, yes, I still mourn the loss of like fallen comrades.

Maybe I can dig out the adapter and charge my recorder for once. That’s as good an excuse as any, right?

I pad down the hall and hesitate at the doorway to his study. I've never been in here alone. It feels invasive somehow, crossing a boundary. But he did say he put some of my things in here, so...

I step inside, half-expecting alarms to go off. None do. The room smells like leather and cedar, like worn books and faint cologne, and something purely him . The desk is stacked with paperwork, notebooks, a cowboy hat perched on one corner like it's supervising.

The office is meticulously organized—surprising for a man who leaves his boots in the middle of the hallway like landmines.

Everything here has a place. Labeled binders.

A color-coded calendar pinned to the corkboard.

A worn leather chair tucked just so behind a broad wooden desk that screams authority, history, him .

My gaze drifts back to the edge of that desk, and heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it.

Two days ago, I wasn’t just standing here.

I was bent over that desk, his hands on my hips, his breath hot at my ear, the paperwork on the floor like forgotten confetti.

I can still feel the faint sting of his stubble against my skin, the low growl in his throat when I whispered his name.

It plays in my head like a fever dream, vivid and unrelenting.

I press my fingers to the edge of the desk now, tracing the woodgrain, and my legs threaten mutiny at the memory.

The desk is warm from the morning sun flooding in through the massive windows behind it, the same ones that overlook the west pasture.

It’s all so scenic, so pastoral , and I had the audacity to fall apart right here, with that view stretching wide behind me.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

This room holds more than ranch ledgers and rodeo schedules now. It holds us . A version of us I didn’t see coming. A version of me I didn’t know existed—desperate, aching, so utterly unguarded it terrified me.

I force myself to breathe and shake my head, looking over the rest of the room.

One wall is lined with framed rodeo photos, and another holds a rack of medals and a vintage Portree fire brigade jacket.

Many of the photos feature a young boy who must be Jake—his grin wide, mischief written all over his face.

But it’s the photo nestled near the back that stops me cold.

Grant and Mason, both in sharp suits and masquerade ball masks, caught mid-laugh at what looks like a charity gala.

My knees wobble like a baby deer on ice.

Because damn. Grant in a suit?

It should be illegal to look that good in formalwear. Broad shoulders straining against crisp fabric, that confident tilt of his jaw—even with half his face hidden behind a mask, he’s unmistakable. Rugged cowboy by day, undercover James Bond by night.

I open the closest drawer, finding only office supplies.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself. “Just text him and ask.”