Page 54 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

The drive into town is a blur, my vision occasionally clouding with angry tears I finally let fall. The truck smells like him—leather and sandalwood and something uniquely Grant—and it only fuels my rage.

The Caffeine Drip is mercifully quiet when I step inside. A low hum from the espresso machine, soft indie music, and the scent of roasted beans—blessedly calm compared to the storm still thundering in my chest.

Annie waves from behind the counter, her cheerful expression faltering when she sees my face.

“Oof.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Rough day?” she asks as I approach.

“Somewhere between scorched-earth and cry-in-the-bathroom,” I say, managing a tired smile.

“Yikes. Come here.” She waves me over like she’s ushering in a stray cat. “Sit. Spill. I slide onto a stool with a sigh that feels like it comes from my soul. “Grant owns the cottage I’ve been renting. The one that flooded. And apparently… it’s been fixed for two weeks. He didn’t tell me.”

Annie freezes mid-pour. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” I pick at the sleeve of my shirt. “I found a plumber’s report on his desk. The place is fine. Habitable. Pipes and all. I’ve been living with him thinking I had no other option and then I found my travel and ID documents on his desk and we ended up having a huge fight.”

“Damn,” she mutters. She sets down the carafe and leans her elbows on the counter. “That’s a lot.”

I nod, throat tightening. “I have this thing—this massive thing—about people making decisions for me. My dad used to do that. Cage me in, cut me off, ‘protect me’ until I couldn’t breathe. I ran from all of that and now…” My voice trails off, raw. “I feel like it’s happening all over again.”

Annie’s expression softens, the sass fading into something gentler. “That sounds really heavy, Mia. I’m sorry.”

I glance down at my hands, when I glance up I see Annie wince as she lets out, “Whole town knows Grant owns that place. Been in his family for generations.” She shrugs apologetically. “Small town, remember?”

“Great. So I'm the only idiot who didn't know I was being played.”

Annie narrows her eyes. “Okay, stop right there. One, you’re not an idiot. Two, if you think Grant Taylor was playing you, you seriously don’t know him.”

I blink at her. “You sound very sure.”

“Because I’ve known him my whole life,” she says. “Grant’s many things—stubborn, emotionally constipated, broody as hell at times—but a manipulative liar? That man doesn’t have it in him.”

“Listen, honey—I’m no therapist,” Annie says, leaning her elbows on the counter, “but can I throw something out there?”

I glance up warily, and she takes that as a green light.

“Maybe you picked this fight with him not because you want to leave,” she says gently, “but because you’re scared you don’t. Maybe it’s easier to walk away when things are messy than to leave when everything feels... perfect.”

Her words land like a sucker punch straight to my chest.

It knocks the breath right out of me.

Because damn it—she might be right.

She sets a large coffee in front of me without asking. “On the house. You look like you need it.”

I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“Don’t mention it. And hey,” Annie leans in, smirking slightly now, “for what it’s worth? If a man built me a river swim sanctuary and nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to impress me at the rodeo? I’d probably throw a muffin at him and then kiss him stupid. But that’s just me.”

I let out a laugh—small, a little cracked, but real. “Muffin first, huh?”

“Oh yeah. Always soften the blow with carbs.”

She turns and walks away to help a customer and I flip open my laptop, staring blankly at the screen. Words swim before my eyes, impossible to focus on. Headlines, leads, structure—none of it comes. My thoughts are still tangled in Grant’s voice, that look on his face when I walked out.

My phone vibrates with an incoming call. Not Grant, thankfully—Suzi, my coach.

“Hey coach,” I answer, trying to sound normal. “Everything okay?”

“Mia,” she says, bright and breathless, like she’s already halfway through a power walk and two espressos. “You sitting down?”

“Kind of,” I mumble, glancing at my untouched coffee. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got news. Big news. You ready?”

“Please. I could use a win today.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “How does two months of intensive training with Dr. Mikhailov and his team in London sound?”

I blink. “Wait— what ?”

My stomach flips. Three days . London. The man’s a legend—part physiotherapist, part wizard. Athletes fly across continents just to get five minutes of his time. His programs shave seconds, redefine limits, break records.

“Are you serious?” I clutch the phone tighter. “How? His waitlist is years long.”

“He had a cancellation, and I begged, borrowed, and borderline blackmailed to get your name on that list. Training starts in two days. This is exactly what you need to take your training to the next level before the Olympics.”

Then, more cautiously: “Do you have your passport?”

I swallow. “Yeah… actually, I got it today, as a matter of fact.”

The irony is sharp enough to cut.

Two days. London. An ocean between me and Texas.

Between me and him .

Between me and the cowboy with the sad eyes who made me forget what I was running from—until I remembered why I always run.

“All you need to do is get on a plane and show up ready to work.”

I exhale, the kind that feels more like deflating. “Suzi, this is… incredible.”

It is.

And it’s also perfect . A clean escape route from the emotional minefield I just detonated back at the ranch. No awkward explanations. No heartache. Just laser-focused training and a continent’s worth of distance from the man who somehow cracked me wide open.

“I knew you’d say yes,” Suzi says. “I’ll email you the travel and training schedules. Mikhailov doesn’t do second chances, Mia. This is it.”

“Right. Got it. I’m in.” My voice wobbles, but I catch it before it cracks. “I’m always ready to work.”

“Damn right you are.”

It feels like the universe is throwing me a lifeline. A perfect escape from this emotional quagmire I've stumbled into.

When the call ends, I sit there staring into my coffee like it might give me permission to breathe again. London . Two months of precision, intensity, the best training team money can buy and the one thing I’ve always known how to do—keep moving forward.

Also, a convenient excuse to leave Texas—and Grant—behind.

No Grant. No cottage. No small town that’s worked its way into my bloodstream without my permission—charming me, disarming me, making me feel things I never meant to feel. No aching, complicated, maddening feelings that would have ended up in me leaving anyway.

Just me and the lane.

It should feel like relief.

Instead, it feels like running.

Again.