Page 55 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

I'm still standing in the middle of my kitchen, breathing like I've just dismounted from Diablo, when I grab my phone and call Mason. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop it twice.

“What's up?” Mason answers on the second ring.

“I fucked up.” The words taste like acid on my tongue. “I fucked up so bad.”

“Where are you?” His voice shifts immediately, that Fireman training kicking in.

“Home.”

“Stay put. I'll be there in fifteen.”

The line goes dead, and I sink onto the island chair, my legs too damn shaky to keep me standing. The house feels colder, quieter, though she's only been gone twenty minutes. But it doesn't matter. She's not here. Not in the way that matters.

I keep seeing her face—the way her eyes, normally so full of fire and challenge and heat, looked at me with something I’d never seen in them before.

Distrust.

It guts me.

I don't move until I hear Mason's truck in the driveway. He doesn't knock, just walks in and heads straight to the fridge, pulling out two beers. He pops the caps and slides one across the counter to me.

“Talk,” he says simply, leaning against the counter.

So I do.

I lay it all out—the cottage, the repairs, how I meant to tell her but never did. How I got so caught up in being near her, having her here that I stopped thinking straight. That I didn’t even realize I was hurting her until I saw that look on her face.

Mason listens without a word, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. When I finish, he takes a long drink and sets his bottle down with a soft clink.

“You're a dumbass,” he says.

“That your professional opinion?”

“That’s my friend opinion. My professional one would use more colorful language.” He shakes his head.

“That's helpful.”

“You want me to sugarcoat it? Fine. You're a dumbass with good intentions.” He crosses his arms. He shakes his head. “You didn’t mean to hurt her, I know that. But you did. And you took away her choice.”

“I wasn’t trying to control her. I just wanted time.”

“Come on, man. Would you have told her if she hadn’t found those papers?”

I stare at the beer, untouched. “Eventually.”

I drag a hand down my face, the weight of his words hitting me like a goddamn freight train.

“I didn’t plan it,” I say. “I was just... in it. Lust-drunk. I wasn’t thinking about the bigger picture. I just wanted every second I could get with her before she realized how easy it was to leave.”

“So you made it harder for her to go,” Mason finishes.

He walks around the kitchen island and slaps me on the shoulder “You were scared, man. I get it. She scares the hell outta you.”

I nod slowly. “Because I’m falling for her.”

“No shit.” He says with a smirk.

“I just... I've never felt this way before. I panicked.”

“So instead, you gave her a reason to run.” Mason shakes his head. “You tried to manage what you were afraid of instead of facing it head-on.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. He's right. I handled my fear of losing Mia exactly the way I've handled my fear of water since Jake died—by trying to control everything around it, by avoiding the thing itself.

“Fuck,” I whisper, the realization washing over me. “I became her father.”

Mason raises an eyebrow.

“Her dad controlled everything after her mom died. Kept her trapped, suffocated her with his fear.” I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “That's why she left home, why she's always moving. And I just... I did the same thing. I did it in a prettier package. But I still did it.”

Mason softens a little, nodding. “You didn't mean it like he did. But from her view? It's too damn close. You gotta fix it.”

The front door bursts open, and Lily storms in like a hurricane in designer boots.

“Grant Taylor, what the hell did you do?”

I close my eyes, letting out a deep sigh. “Hi, Lily, I’m fine thanks.”

“Don't 'hi' me. I ran into Mia at the Caffeine Drip. She looked like someone kicked her soul. And Annie filled me in. The cottage? Really? You let her think she had nowhere to go?”

“I didn’t let her, it just... slipped.”

“Like hell. You messed up.”

“Mason already gave me that speech.”

“Good,” she snaps. Then her tone softens. “But you’re also my brother, and I love you. So now we fix it.”

“I don’t know if it can be fixed.” The admission costs me. “You didn't see her face, Lil. She looked at me like... like I'd betrayed her.”

“You did,” Lily says bluntly. “But not all betrayals are equal and this doesn't have to be the end of the story. Not if you're genuinely sorry and actually do better.”

“What do you suggest?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice. “I can't undo what I did.”

“No, but you can show her who you really are now.” Lily pulls out her phone. “Starting with making sure that cottage is not just fixed, but perfect. I'm calling Dad's contractor right now.”

As Lily makes calls, ordering premium upgrades for the cottage and arranging for a cleaning crew, Mason watches me thoughtfully.

“What?” I ask, catching his expression.

“You're different with her,” he says. “I've known you most of your life, and I've never seen you like this over a woman.”

“Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He finishes his beer. “But the Grant Taylor I knew, before Mia showed up would have chased after her, forced a confrontation, insisted on fixing things his way, on his timeline.”

I consider this. “And now?”

“Now you're sitting here, beating yourself up and letting her have the space she asked for.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “That's growth, brother.”

“Or cowardice,” I mutter.

“Respecting someone's boundaries isn't cowardice,” Lily chimes in, ending her call. “It's actually the opposite of what got you into this mess.”

She's right, and I know it. Painful as it is to let Mia go cool off without charging after her, that's exactly what I need to do. I need to show her I respect her autonomy, that I understand what I did wrong here.

“The contractor’s meeting us at the cottage in thirty minutes,” Lily announces. “He's bringing paint samples, fabric swatches, the works. We're going to make that place magazine-worthy by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I blink. “That's impossible.”

“Not when you throw enough money at it.” She grins, clearly enjoying this.

“Dad called ahead and pulled some strings—got extra crews working double shifts.

Said it's the least he can do since—and I quote—'his son is making a mess of the best damn thing that's happened to him since he set the arena record at the Houston Invitational.’”

Despite everything, I feel a small smile tug at my lips. “Dad said that?”

“Yup” she pops the ‘p’. “He also said some stuff about your head being so far up your ass you could check your own tonsils, but I'm editing for sensitivity.”

Mason snorts. “I like the unedited version.”

For the next eight hours, I throw myself into transforming the cottage like a man possessed.

The flood damage had been extensive, but I’m hell-bent on making this place feel like home for her again—like she still belongs here.

Mason helps rip up the warped floorboards, cussing with flair every time a nail fights back.

Lily’s in charge of paint—mostly supervising with iced coffee in one hand and a playlist of questionable country remixes blaring from her phone, and we furnish it with everything Mia might need.

Mama shows up in her Sunday best, fresh from choir rehearsal and clearly on her way to the church bake sale.

She walks through the door carrying a glass pitcher of sweet tea and a tray of lemon bars. “Y’all look like you’re one minute away from heatstroke,” she says, setting everything down on the porch table.

“We are,” Mason deadpans, wiping his brow with his shirt.

Mama leans over to inspect a patch of fresh flooring with a pleased hum.

Just as she’s about to head out the door, she pauses like an afterthought’s hit her.

“Oh, Grant, I almost forgot. The new postman accidentally dropped some envelopes for Mia off in our postbox. You were out at the pastures, and Mia wasn’t home, so I went ahead and dropped them on your desk for you.

Looked too important to be sittin’ in the mailbox for God knows how long. ”

The very envelopes—passport, ID, bank cards—that made Mia think I’d trapped her here.

She says it so breezily, like she didn’t just casually mention the spark that lit the powder keg, like she didn’t just accidentally toss a live grenade into my study.

I school my face into something neutral, biting down on the surge of guilt that punches up from my ribs. “Thanks, Mama,” I say, forcing a smile, trying not to flinch, but relieved for the explanation of how those envelopes came to be on my desk.

She says something to Mason about needing to donate a pie to the firehouse soon, then disappears down the path in a cloud of perfume and grace.

I borrow my Dad’s truck and head into town, where I do a monumental amount of décor shopping, with no idea what Mia might like, but going on the Pinterest boards Lily sent me, I know it would look good.

By midnight, the place looks better than it ever has—warm, welcoming, and completely hers for as long as she wants it.

When we get back home, I’m bone-tired—my muscles aching, shirt clinging to me with sweat and drywall dust.

I spot my truck already parked where Mia left it earlier. My heart kicks a little at the sight, even though the house is quiet. Too quiet. No music, no movement through the windows. The porch light’s on, but the living room is dark. She must be sleeping.

A part of me itches to go check, to knock on her door and say everything that’s been clattering around in my chest since she left the café.

But the other part knows she needs more space.

My mind won’t rest until I say what needs saying, so I grab a pen, scrawl the words that have been clawing at my chest, and leave the note on the kitchen counter.

Mia,