Page 53 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

But my phone is charging in the kitchen, and honestly, how hard can it be to find a bag of chargers and a swimsuit?

The second drawer reveals neatly labeled folders—ranch expenses, rodeo schedules, medical records. Nothing personal. My eyes scan the folders and freeze.

A folder labeled “RENTAL PROPERTY—RIVERSIDE COTTAGE” sits at the front.

That's... my cottage. The one that flooded.

I shouldn't look. I absolutely shouldn't.

So I open it.

Inside are Property deeds. Tax filings. Maintenance logs. Rental agreements.

And Grant’s name is on every damn one of them. Understanding dawns like a cold wave crashing over me. The cottage belongs to Grant. Has belonged to him for years.

My stomach drops, like the floor’s been pulled out from under me.

“What the hell?” I whisper, flipping through more documents.

And then I see it—a plumber's report dated two weeks ago. Not detailing work needed, but work completed. The fatberg cleared. Pipes repaired. Property status habitable.

Two weeks ago.

The breath lodges in my throat. It feels like drowning without water.

Two whole weeks he’s let me believe I had nowhere else to go. That the cottage was a swampy, broken mess. That I was stuck.

That I needed him.

My hands begin to shake.

Beneath the plumber's report is an email from the property management company, addressed to Grant:

Mr. Taylor,

Per your request, we will continue to list the Riverside Cottage as uninhabitable until you notify us otherwise. As the owner, this is your prerogative, though we do advise informing the tenant of the situation at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

CHS Property Management

Tenant. Prerogative. Notify.

All those polite, clinical words boil down to one thing.

He knew. He chose this. He kept me here.

My knees buckle and I sink into his desk chair like it might hold me together. But nothing can. Because this... this betrayal feels all too familiar.

The breath in my lungs turns shallow and sharp. Because suddenly, I’m not in Grant’s study anymore.

I’m fifteen again. Sitting in a locked bedroom while my father tells my swim coach I’m not available for regionals.

I’m seventeen, the acceptance letter to a summer program torn in half on the kitchen floor.

I’m eighteen, crying in a bathroom because every time I tasted freedom, he found a way to chain it back.

And now Grant—

God, I know this is different. I know he’s not my father.

But my body doesn’t.

The betrayal, the manipulation—no matter how pretty the packaging—feels the same. And it slices through me like a rusted blade.

I sink into his desk chair, the papers clutched in my trembling hand. Everything replays in my mind with new, sickening context—his insistence I stay with him, his family's knowing looks, his perfectly timed appearances whenever I mentioned leaving.

And that’s when I see them.

Three white envelopes, tucked just beneath a stack of bills. Crisp. Untouched. My name printed across the front in government style text.

I blink. Lean forward. No— no.

Fingers trembling, I pick them up.

The first one is thick. I tear it open like it might explode and out slides my passport.

The other? My bank cards. My replacement driver’s license. All of it.

Every piece of the identity I thought was lost and not yet re-issued, sitting here— just sitting here —like this wasn’t the answer to all the stress, the helplessness, the calls to embassies and banks.

It’s been here. The whole time .

My hands go numb.

My chest clamps like a vice. I can’t get air. My lungs seize, my body curling into itself as panic swells in a violent tide.

No no no no no—

I clutch the edges of the chair as if it’ll anchor me. As if I’m not about to go under.

It’s not just the envelope. Not just the cottage. Not just the lies. It’s the fear, the suffocating, clawing fear I thought I buried a lifetime ago.

The same fear I lived with every day of my childhood. Of being watched. Controlled. Cut off. Of never truly owning my freedom.

Of being told what I needed. Where I should go. Who I should be.

I escaped that. I ran across oceans to escape that.

But now— God —what if I’ve just fallen into it all over again?

My throat burns. My vision warps. I grip the envelope so hard it crinkles.

I know this is irrational. I know Grant isn’t him. He hasn’t raised his voice. He hasn’t locked a door.

But that doesn’t matter when the memories don’t ask permission. They just flood in, uninvited.

The sound of tires on gravel jerks me back to reality. Grant's truck. He's back early.

I shove the papers back into the folder but keep the plumber's report, the email and my Identity documents in my hand. Evidence. Proof that I've been played for a fool.

My heart pounds as I walk to the kitchen, standing rigidly by the counter as the front door opens.

“Hey, meeting got canceled,” Grant calls cheerfully. “Thought we could—” He rounds the corner and sees me, his smile faltering at my expression. “What's wrong?”

I hold up the papers. “Care to explain these?”

His face drains of color. “Mia, I can explain—”

“You own the cottage.” Each word is precise, razor-sharp. “The one that was still being repaired after the flood.”

He steps forward. “Yes, but—”

“And it's been fixed. For weeks.” I slap the plumber's report on the counter. “Two fucking weeks, Grant! You've been lying to me this whole time!”

“No, I didn’t say anything,” he says, hands raised placatingly. “I just—”

“Just what? Just until you could get me into bed? Mission accomplished there, cowboy. Was that the endgame?”

His eyes flash with hurt. “That's not fair. You know it wasn't like that.”

“Do I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you deliberately kept me here, manipulated the situation so I'd have no choice but to depend on you.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. “I wanted time with you, yes. I delayed telling you the cottage was fixed because I thought—I hoped—”

“What? That I wouldn't notice? That I'd be so dazzled by your charm I wouldn't care you've been lying to me?”

“That you felt what I feel!” he fires back, stepping toward me, his voice loud with panic and raw with something that sounds terrifyingly like heartbreak. “That this thing between us was worth exploring without the ticking clock of you running off the moment your rental dried out!”

I recoil slightly, folding my arms tightly across my chest. “So you decided for me.

Without asking. Without even giving me the chance to decide if I wanted to stay.

That doesn't make it okay, Grant! You don't get to decide what's best for me, to manipulate circumstances to keep me where you want me!” My voice cracks.

“My father did that for years after my mom died.

Controlled every aspect of my life under the guise of protection.

I swore I'd never let anyone trap me like that again.”

His eyes widen. “That's not what I was doing. I would never—”

“This isn’t just about leaving your bed Grant.” I whisper. My voice is shaking now, and I hold up the passport like it’s Exhibit A in a trial I never wanted to be in. “What about this? What else were you planning on ‘not mentioning’ for my own good?”

His brows furrow for a beat—confusion flickers across his features—then something clicks.

His whole body goes still. “Your passport…” he whispers, blinking like he’s just been slapped.

“Mia, I swear to God, I didn’t know it came.

I didn’t see it until—until now. I wouldn’t—I would never do that to you. ”

“ Mia— ” His voice breaks around my name like he’s struggling to breathe. “Look, I know what it looks like, but I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t know your passport arrived.” He repeats.

“I don’t know what to believe right now,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “Because even if you didn’t know about this…” I hold up my passport. “You still didn’t tell me the cottage was fixed and an option for me.”

His shoulders drop like I’ve just punched him. I want to believe him. God, I want to.

But right now, all I can feel is that familiar ache. That fear of being cornered. Of having my choices stripped away.

I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Because if I let myself breathe, I might break.

“I wanted you here, yeah,” he admits, his hands fisting at his sides. “God, I wanted you here. But not like this. Never like this. I wasn’t trying to trap you, Mia. I was just... buying time. Just a little time.”

My eyes sting, but I refuse to let the tears fall.

“But you did.” I shake my head, disappointment heavy in my chest. “You decided you knew better than me what I needed. How is that different?”

“Because I was scared!” he shouts, startling me. “Scared you'd leave before we had a chance. Scared that the first person who's made me feel something real in years would disappear like she was never here.”

We stand facing each other, the counter between us like a no-man's land.

“I need some space,” I finally say, calmer now but no less resolved. “I can't think straight here. Not with you looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm breaking your heart.” I turn away, unable to bear the naked emotion in his eyes. “I'm going to work at that café in town for a while. Please don't follow me.”

“Mia, please—”

“I mean it, Grant. I need to process this.”

He steps back, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine. Take my truck.”

“I'll walk.”

“It's three miles in this heat.”

“I could use the exercise.”

He makes a frustrated sound. “God, you're the most stubborn woman I've ever met.”

“And you made me feel like I didn’t have a choice,” I fire back before I can stop myself.

His winches, like I slapped him. “That's not fair and you know it.”

“Fair? You want to talk about fair?” I grab my laptop bag from the counter. “Was it fair to keep me here under false pretenses? Was it fair to let me believe I had nowhere else to go? Was it fair to sleep with me and not tell me the truth? To let me fall for you while believing I had no way out?”

He flinches at that last one. “Don't make what happened between us sound cheap. It wasn't like that.”

“Then what was it like, Grant? Explain it to me. Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you saw an opportunity with a stranded woman and took it.”

“That's bullshit!” His fist slams against the counter, making me jump.

“I have never felt this way about anyone.

I've been walking around with my chest cracked open since I met you.

Do you think I planned any of this? Do you think I wanted to fall for a woman who's made it crystal clear she's leaving the first chance she gets?”

The word “fall” hangs between us, heavy with implication.

“You’re right, I am taking your truck,” I say, snatching the keys from the hook by the door. “I'll be back later.”

“Mia—”

“Later, Grant.”

I don't look back as I storm out to his truck, my hands shaking so badly I can barely insert the key. The engine roars to life, and I peel down the driveway, gravel spitting beneath the tires.