Page 61 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

I'm moving against the current—a sea of bodies flowing one way while I push in the opposite direction.

My cowboy hat, completely out of place in this London venue, bobs above the crowd like a buoy in choppy water.

My broken arm throbs in its cast, pressed uncomfortably against my chest as I navigate through people who shoot me looks ranging from curious to annoyed.

But I don't give a single solitary fuck. Not when she's standing there on that podium, gold gleaming around her neck, looking like every dream I've had for the past eight weeks compressed into human form.

Mia. My Mia. Only she's not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but I just have to speak to her, touch her one last time, if she’ll let me.

“Sir, you can't go that way.” A security guard in a navy uniform steps into my path, hand raised. “The medal ceremony area is restricted.”

I stop, sizing him up—not as a threat, but as an obstacle between me and what matters. “I understand,” I say, injecting my voice with the same calm I use on spooked horses. “But that's my future wife up there.”

His eyebrows lift toward his hairline. “Your fiancée?” The doubt in his voice is thick enough to spread on toast.

“Mia Bonney. Gold medalist. Just won the 200-meter breaststroke.” I gesture to her with my good arm. “We got separated in the excitement. I've been trying to get back to her.”

He crosses his arms. “I'm sorry, sir, but I can't just—”

I cut him off by digging into my jeans pocket, pulling out my mother's ring—the one she'd pressed into my palm before I left, whispering, “Just in case.”

“Was planning to give her this after,” I say, letting the antique diamond catch the light. It's not technically a lie if the thought has crossed my mind approximately eight hundred times during the fifteen-hour journey here.

The guard's expression softens slightly. “That's lovely, but protocol states—”

“Look,” I interrupt, desperation seeping into my voice.

“I flew six thousand miles with a broken arm to be here.

First time ever overseas. Nearly threw up twice.

Had to change in an airport bathroom with one goddamn hand.

I haven't slept in thirty-six hours.” I hold his gaze.

“I know you've got a job to do, but I'm asking you, man to man—let me through so I can see my wife.”

He hesitates, glancing between me and Mia, who's now scanning the crowd, looking overwhelmed.

“Five minutes,” he finally says. “And if she doesn't know you, I'm personally escorting you out.”

“Fair enough.” I pocket the ring and duck past him before he changes his mind.

The crowd parts slightly as I approach the security barrier around the podium area. Without breaking stride, I vault over it one-handed—a move that sends pain shooting through my ribs but gets me several steps closer to her.

And then she sees me.

Our eyes lock across thirty feet of polished floor, and the rest of the arena—the spectators, the cameras, the other athletes—blur into insignificance. Mia's mouth drops open slightly, her gold medal catching the light as her chest rises with a sharp intake of breath.

I close the distance in strides that feel both too fast and achingly slow.

“Grant?” Her voice is barely audible, disbelief written across her features I've memorized in my dreams for weeks. “What are you—how did you—”

“Surprise,” I say lamely, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this is—me standing here in boots and jeans, arm in a cast, cowboy hat, in front of a woman who just made Olympic history.

Mia descends from the podium, moving toward me like she's underwater, cautious and fluid. “You never leave the ranch. You told me once you get hives crossing the county line.”

“That was hyperbole.” I step closer, close enough to smell the chlorine on her skin mixed with that citrus scent that's haunted me for weeks. “And some things are worth the discomfort.”

“Like what?” she challenges, something vulnerable flickering behind her eyes.

“Like showing up when my girl makes history.” The words slip out naturally, claiming her in a way I have no right to.

She doesn't correct me. Instead, she reaches out, fingers hovering just shy of touching my cast. “Your arm. The accident. I saw the news...”

“It'll heal.” I shrug, then wince at the movement. “Turns out I'm harder to kill than a cockroach.”

“What are you doing here, Grant?” Her voice cracks slightly, her calm facade slipping.

The question deserves honesty—the raw, unfiltered kind that's been burning in my chest since I watched her disappear through airport security eight weeks ago.

“I'm here because I should have gotten on that plane with you.”

I take another step closer. “Because I've been walking around half-dead since you left. Because I've spent every morning for eight weeks staring at that river, wondering if you're thinking about me too.”

“Grant” she sniffles with tears welling up in her beautiful blue eyes. “I can’t…we can’t…our lives, they’re just too different…you’re better off—”

“You think I’m better off without you?” I interrupt her “I’m not.

I’m a hollow man wearin’ skin and pretending I’m fine.

But I’m not. I’m not fine. I’ve been missing my home—and you are my home, darlin’.

My peace, my storm, my everything in between.

And if I gotta beg, then I’ll get on my knees right here and now.

But don’t you dare walk away thinkin’ you weren’t loved with every beat of this busted cowboy heart. ”

I still, trying to find the answers in her water filled eyes. I’m holding my body like I’m holding the last thread of myself.

“So if there’s even one flicker left in you—one damn ember burning for me—I’ll blow on it with everything I’ve got, and I’ll fight for you ‘til my last breath. But if this is goodbye… then at least know this: loving you wrecked me. And I’d do it all over again.”

Her eyes glisten. “I qualified,” she says, as if I couldn't possibly understand the significance.

“I saw.” I smile. “You were fucking magnificent. Like you were born in water.”

“I'm going to the Olympics.” There's wonder in her voice, but also a question—what does this mean for us?

“I know. And I'll be there, cheering so loud they'll hear me back in Portree.”

A tear escapes, trailing down her cheek. “You hate traveling.”

“I’ve come to learn, I hate being without you more.”

Camera flashes start popping around us as people realize something unscripted is happening. I'm vaguely aware we're creating a scene, but I couldn't care less.

“I don't know what to say,” she whispers.

“You don't have to say anything.” I reach up to brush away her tear with my thumb. “But I flew across an ocean to tell you I love you, Mia Bonney. And I'd do it again tomorrow and the next day and every day after that if it meant being where you are.”

She makes a small sound—half-laugh, half-sob. “You love me?”

“Completely. Inconveniently. Permanently.” I cup her face with my good hand. “I should have told you before you left. I should have followed you to the gate and shouted it for the whole damn airport to hear.”

More cameras flash. Someone nearby is definitely filming us.

“Can I kiss you?” I ask, suddenly uncertain of my welcome despite crossing continents to be here. “Or would that be inappropriate given the whole gold medal thing?”

Her answer is to fist her hand in my shirt and pull me up on the podium. When our lips meet, it's like coming home after the longest journey of my life. She tastes of sweet victory and something uniquely Mia that I've been starving for.

Cameras flash all around us, the crowd erupts in cheers and whistles, but it's all background noise to the sound of my heart thundering back to life in my chest.

When we break apart, breathless, Mia leans her forehead against mine. “You're crazy,” she whispers. “Completely, certifiably insane.”

“Only about you.”

“Mr. Taylor,” a voice interrupts. We turn to find an organizer and the security guard, looking apologetic but firm. “Your five minutes are up.”

“He's with me,” Mia says, twining her fingers with mine. “He stays.”

The guard hesitates, then nods. “There's press waiting for more interviews, Ms. Bonney.” The organizer points to the pressroom direction.

Mia turns to me. “Wait for me after the interviews? We need to talk. Properly. Without an audience.”

“Lead the way,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I've already followed you across an ocean. I’ll follow you anywhere darlin’.”

***

Four hours later, we're finally alone in her small flat near the training center. The medal ceremony, press interviews, and congratulations from teammates created a gauntlet we navigated together, my hand rarely leaving hers.

Now she sits cross-legged on her bed, still in her Team USA warm-ups, while I perch on the edge of a chair that's too small for a man my size.

“You really flew all the way here just to see me qualify?” she asks, running her fingers over the gold medal still around her neck, like she can't quite believe either reality—the medal or me.

“That, and to tell you I'm sorry.” I lean forward, elbows on knees. “Not just for the cottage thing, though I'm still sorry about that too. But for not fighting harder when you left. For not telling you I loved you that day at the airport.”

She studies me, those intelligent eyes searching for something. “I ran,” she admits quietly. “When things got complicated, I did what I always do—I bolted. Used training as an excuse.”

“And I withheld information because I was terrified of losing you.” I shrug. “We're quite the pair.”

“Fear makes us stupid.” A small smile plays at her lips. “Someone wise once told me that.” She replays my words to me.

“Sounds like a smart person.” I chuckle.

“He has his moments.” She sets the medal aside and moves to sit on the floor in front of me, looking up with those baby blues that see straight through my bullshit. “I thought about you every day. I checked rodeo scores obsessively. My coach thought I was losing my mind.”

“I couldn't even look at the cottage, without wanting to put my fist through something.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. “Mason threatened to sedate me a few times.”

She laughs, the sound warming parts of me that have been cold for weeks. “So what now? I'm going to the Olympics, Grant. That's months of intensive training ahead.”

“I know.”

“And after that, I have obligations, appearances, sponsorships...”

“I know that too.”

She bites her lip. “I can't just drop everything and move back to Portree.”

I take a deep breath, knowing this is where I prove what I've learned. “I'm not asking you to.”

Surprise flickers across her face. “You're not?”

“Nope. Where we live, how we make this work—that's your call, Mia.” I take her hand, tracing the calluses on her palm. “I've seen what you become in the water. I've watched you fight your way to your dreams. The last thing I want is for you to give that up.”

“But the ranch—your family—”

“Will still be there, whether I'm living on the property or visiting often. Besides, I’m not riding for a few months.” I lift my cast arm and bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“This is what I'm trying to tell you. I love you enough to meet you where you are.

To support what you need. I'm done being afraid of change.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “You'd leave Texas? For me?”

“I'd live on the fucking moon if that's where you needed to be.”

She laughs through her tears. “The commute would be hell.”

“Worth it.” I grin.

She rises to her knees, bringing her face level with mine. “You know what I realized while I was here?”

“What's that?”

“That I've spent my whole life defining freedom as the ability to leave.” Her hands come up to frame my face. “But watching you with your family, seeing how you love that land, how it grounds you instead of trapping you—it made me question everything.”

“And?” I prompt when she pauses.

“And maybe real freedom isn't about running away. Maybe it's about choosing to stay even when it's hard. Finding roots that nourish instead of confine.”