Page 57 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

London rain patters against the window of my training facility, nothing like the thunderous Texas downpours that shake the earth.

I push through another set of shoulder presses, my muscles screaming in protest. Four hours into today's session, and I'm still not tired enough to silence the thoughts of him.

“Again,” Dr. Mikhailov commands, his Russian accent thick even after decades in London. “Your form is slipping.”

I reset and push through ten more reps, forcing every cell in my body to focus on the burn rather than the hollow ache in my chest.

“Enough.” He steps forward, placing a hand on the weight bar. “You are working too hard, too angry. This is not productive training.”

“I'm fine,” I manage between gasps. “I can do another set.”

Mikhailov's weathered face creases. He and Coach Suzi share a concerned look between them before he turns to me.

“Three weeks you have been here, and every day is the same. You punish your body like it has betrayed you.” He crosses his arms, clipboard tucked against his chest. “What are you running from, Ms. Bonney?”

“Nothing.” The question taking me off guard. “I'm running toward an Olympic medal. Isn't that why you agreed to train me?”

His penetrating gaze makes me fidget. “In thirty years of coaching, I have seen this before. The athlete who trains to forget, not to improve.” He gestures toward the bench. “Sit. We talk.”

I reluctantly perch on the edge, toweling sweat from my face to hide my expression.

“Your numbers are impressive,” he concedes, flipping through his notes. “Your times have improved. But your mind—” he taps his temple, “—your mind is somewhere else.”

“My mind is right here.”

“Then why do I catch you staring at your phone between sets? Why do you check Texas rodeo scores when you think no one is looking?”

Heat rushes to my face. “Research for an article. I'm still a writer.”

“Mm-hmm.” His noncommittal hum speaks volumes. “The champion swimmer who cares suddenly about bull riding. Very convincing.”

I start unwrapping the tape from my hands, focusing on the sticky resistance. “Is there a problem with my performance? Because if not—”

“The problem,” he interrupts, “is that champions need clear minds. Whatever—or whoever—you left in Texas is holding part of you hostage.”

“That's ridiculous—”

“Is it?” He raises one bushy eyebrow. “Then prove me wrong. Leave your phone in your locker tomorrow. Full day. No checking scores, no Texas news, no nothing.”

My stomach drops at the thought. What if something happens to Grant and I don't know? What if he reaches out after weeks of silence?

“Fine,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. “Whatever you think will help.”

Mikhailov's smile tells me he knows I'm full of shit. “Tomorrow then. Now go. The ice bath is waiting for you. You need recovery as much as training.”

***

The next day, I stand in my rented flat near the Thames, soaking myself under the shower until the hot water runs cold, letting it wash away today’s training and the physical evidence of today's punishment if not the mental weight.

London was supposed to be my escape, my return to normalcy.

Instead, I've brought all my ghosts with me across the ocean.

My phone pings with Brè's incoming video call just as I'm wrapping myself in a towel. I consider ignoring it, but after weeks of dodging her questions, I owe her at least a conversation.

“Well, don't you look like sunshine and rainbows,” she quips when I answer, her face filling my screen, Manhattan apartment visible in the background.

“Thanks. I feel like it too.” I plop onto my bed, hair dripping onto the duvet.

“That bad, huh? I thought the great Dr. Mikhailov was supposed to transform you into some kind of swimming goddess.”

“He's trying. I'm just...” I wave my hand vaguely.

“Pining?”

“Training,” I correct sharply. “Intensely, plus I think I’ve got a nasty bout of seasonal depression going on.” I shrug.

Brè gives me her patented bullshit-detector stare. “Oh honey this ain’t no seasonal depression—it’s a Taylor deficiency.” She says matter of fact.

All I can do is blink at her.

She flips her fiery red hair over her shoulder and stares me down through the screen. “Spill it, Bonney. You've been avoiding real conversation for weeks now and I’ve been giving you the space to work through it. So, come on baby girl. How are you actually doing?”

At her words and the look of concern on her face, something in me cracks—maybe it's the familiar way she uses my last name, or maybe I'm just tired of pretending.

“I…I can't stop thinking about him, Brè,” I admit, my voice cracks and the words rush out like water breaking through a dam, fast and breathless, too much to hold back.

“My chest physically hurts and I check rodeo scores compulsively.” I sniff.

“I've reread his texts so many times I have them memorized. And I—I dream about him. About that stupid river, and the way he looked at me like I was something he'd never expected... but couldn’t bear to lose.”

My throat tightens. My voice shaky as my vision gets blurry with unshed tears.

I press the heel of my hand hard against my forehead like I can somehow push the ache away. “What the hell is wrong with me Brè? This was supposed to be my dream opportunity. Travel, write, swim, move on. And now I’m here, crying about a cowboy who doesn’t even text me anymore.”

Brè doesn’t gloat. She doesn’t smirk or pull out a triumphant I told you so . She doesn’t cut in.There’s silence on the line. When she finally speaks, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” she says gently, her voice like a balm. “You just… fell in love.”

The words don’t just land. The words crashes into me. They shatter something.

Love.

I suck in a breath and hold it. I stare at the wall like it might give me answers. It doesn’t.

“Love?” I echo, my voice cracking in the middle. “That can’t be what this is. I don’t fall in love. I don’t even believe in that kind of stuff. You know I don’t.”

“You didn’t,” she says gently. “Until now.”

It shouldn’t feel like a punch to the chest. It shouldn’t make the air disappear from the room. But it does. It absolutely does.

I blink. Once. Twice. And then the tears come hot and fast, burning their way down my cheeks before I can pretend to be fine. My shoulders hitch. I try to hold back the sob, but it slips out anyway—a sharp little sound that sounds like it came from someone else entirely.

I press the sleeve of my sweatshirt to my face and sniff hard. “Well, it sucks,” I croak, snotty and wrecked. “It sucks so bad, Brè. I feel completely… out of control.”

“Of course it sucks,” she says, shifting closer on the couch and tucking her feet under her. “Feelings are messy. Love is the messiest one of all.”

She’s too calm, and it makes me spiral faster.

“I don’t do this. I don’t fall in love. I don’t feel like this. I don’t sit around hoping some guy will message me like I’m sixteen and hormonal. I’m not this girl!”

“You are,” she says, not unkindly. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

“Has he reached out at all?”

“No,” I mutter. The stab of disappointment nearly doubles me over. “But he’s… respecting my space. That’s what I asked for.”

“Is it?” she challenges. “Because you look like hell. And not in the cute, mascara-smudge, lived-in heartbreak way. In the torturing yourself way.”

“I'm just tired.” I mumble, lying through my teeth.

“Bullshit.”

My head jerks up.

“Honey I love you,” she continues “but you ran from your dad's overprotection straight into a life of constant motion. Never staying anywhere long enough to build something real. You’re running so hard from anything that feels too real, too big, too risky—because you’re terrified it might actually be good . ”

Her voice is gentle “The one time you accidentally put down even shallow roots—with the Taylors, with Grant—you bolted at the first sign of complication.”

“But…but, he lied to me,” I remind her, but even to my own ears, it sounds like a weak excuse.

“Yeah, he omitted to telling you. And it was wrong. But I don’t think it was intentional. People who have never felt real fear don't make mistakes like that. He was terrified of losing you, Mia.” She leans closer to the camera. “Just like you were terrified of staying.”

Her words gut me. It’s not a slap—it’s a quiet, brutal truth. And it lands right where I’m already cracked.

We sit in silence as her words sink in. Is she right? Have I been the architect of my own loneliness all these years?

“Even if that's true,” I finally say, “what am I supposed to do about it now? I'm in London. I have obligations, contracts.”

“I'm not saying drop everything and run back to Cowboy Ken. I'm saying maybe it's time to stop running away from the feelings instead of facing them.”

She gives me a knowing look. “How's the training really going?”

“Physically, great. Mentally...” I trail off, remembering Mikhailov and Coach Suzi’s assessments. “My coach thinks I'm distracted.”

“No shit.”

“But I've improved my times! I'm stronger than before.”

“And completely miserable, which isn't sustainable.” She sighs. “Look, I know a thing or two about running from feelings. I’m going on a date with a guy I really like, by the way.”

This pulls me out of my self-absorption. “You are? When?” grateful of the change in topic.

“We're having dinner tomorrow night. I'm terrified.”

“Brè! That's huge. Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because you've been doing your best impression of a zombie in Speedos.” She smiles softly. “I took your advice. I decided I'd rather know if there's something real there than always wonder what might have been.”

“That's...” I search for words. “Brave.”

“Yep. And you know what's not brave? Hiding in London pretending that what happened in Texas didn't change you.”

I fall back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. “I don't know if I can do brave right now.”

“Nobody said growth was comfortable, Bonney.”