Page 62 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Mia

My hand trembles as I trace the cover of Wanderlust Magazine, my byline printed in bold beneath the title: “The Detour That Became Home.” The issue has been out for three days, and Brè claims it's already generating more buzz than anything I've written before.

“You good?” Grant asks, his fingers interlaced with mine as we drive down the familiar roads of Portree, Texas.

“Just weird to be back,” I admit, watching the town materialize outside the window. “After everything—the Olympics, the media circus—this place feels like a dream I had.”

“A good dream, I hope.” His thumb draws lazy circles on my hand, sending familiar tingles up my arm.

“The best kind.”

The truth is, during the Olympics and subsequent victory tour, I'd wake up disoriented in luxury hotel rooms around the world, momentarily forgetting where I was.

But in those bleary seconds between sleep and consciousness, my mind would always drift to the same place—a small Texas town with a river running through it, and a cowboy with brown eyes like amber whiskey.

Now that cowboy is beside me, steering his truck with one hand like he was born to it. The cast still on, but he still favors that arm sometimes.

“Brè called again this morning,” I tell him, watching his profile as he drives. “She's serious about this unconventional training series. Says the publisher is prepared to offer a three-book deal.”

Grant's face splits into that sunshine smile that still liquefies my insides. “Told you they'd love it. Not every day an Olympic gold medalist credits her success to a makeshift river training facility in Nowhere, Texas.”

“That was before you got yourself trampled on national television,” I remind him, the memory still enough to make my stomach clench. “Nothing sells magazines like a heroic cowboy boyfriend kissing a girl on a podium.”

“Exploiting my trauma for personal gain? I'm wounded, Bonney.”

“Literally,” I quip, then soften. “They want me to scout locations, interview local athletes, document different training environments. Brè says I can base myself wherever I want between trips.”

His eyes flick to mine, careful hope written in them. “And where might that be?”

“I was thinking somewhere with good weather,” I tease. “Great coffee shop. River access. Ridiculously attractive population of cowboys.”

“Sounds exclusive. Think they'd let an Olympic groupie like me visit?”

“You'd have to bring references. And possibly bribes.”

He laughs, the sound filling the cab of the truck and something hollow inside me. For all our phone calls, video chats, and his surprise visit to Paris for the Games, nothing compares to being here with him, breathing the same air, close enough to touch.

I glance out the window, but my mind flickers back—just for a moment—to that day. The day everything changed.

The Olympic final.

The air in the aquatic center had been heavy with pressure, thick with the collective nerves of twenty thousand spectators.

My cap tugged tight, goggles pressed into my face, I stood on the block with my toes curled over the edge and my heart hammering like it wanted out.

The world was watching. Gold or nothing.

I remember the sound of the announcer’s voice echoing across the arena—"Take your marks"—and that sharp, clean beep that launched us all forward. The water swallowed me whole. For the first twenty-five meters, it was all about rhythm—stroke, breathe, kick, drive. Every breath a gamble, every movement a calculated war against the clock. I couldn’t tell who was ahead. I didn’t care. It was me against me.

But on the final turn, I saw her—the reigning world champ, half a body ahead. Something inside me snapped. Not fear. Not panic. Focus. Fire. I kicked off the wall like a rocket, the burn in my lungs eclipsed by sheer will.

I touched the wall, looked up at the board—and there it was. My name. First. Gold.

Everything exploded around me. Cheers, flashes, announcers losing their minds. But I didn’t care about the medal. Not really. My eyes scanned the stands until I saw him—cowboy hat and all, standing in a sea of strangers, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted my name.

I yanked off my cap and goggles and I ran—past the officials, past the photographers, past protocol. Straight out of the pool and into his arms.

He caught me like he always does.

Wrapped me up, spun me once, and buried his face in my wet hair. “You did it, darlin’,” he whispered, voice thick with pride and something far more permanent. “Knew you would.”

The cameras lost it. The commentators gushed. Social media blew up with a clip of a girl in a soaked Team USA swimsuit launching herself into the arms of a very hot, very proud cowboy like some rom-com finale no one saw coming. But for me? That was real life.

That was home.

And sitting beside him now, months later, our fingers brushing between gear shifts, I know it wasn’t just gold I won that day.

It was him. Always him.

“We're making a quick detour,” Grant announces, snapping me out of my daydream and turning onto a familiar dirt road that makes my pulse quicken.

“The cottage?”

“Got some things to show you.”

My curiosity piques as we pull up to what once was the site of my fateful plumbing disaster. But the cottage before us barely resembles the place I fled from months ago. The exterior has been completely renovated—fresh paint, new shutters, a wraparound porch with actual rocking chairs.

“Grant, what did you do?”

“Might've made a few improvements.” He cuts the engine, looking simultaneously proud and nervous. “You should see inside before you judge.”

I step out into the Texas heat, the familiar weight of it settling on my skin like a welcome embrace. Grant leads me up the porch steps, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back—a habit he's developed that makes me feel both protected and desired.

“Ready?” he asks, producing a key attached to a small swimming medal keychain.

“Did you steal my junior nationals medal for a keychain?”

“Borrowed,” he corrects, sliding the key into the lock. “For sentimental value.”

The door swings open to reveal an interior I barely recognize. Gone are the dated fixtures and tired furnishings, replaced by a seamless blend of modern amenities and rustic charm. Natural light pours through expanded windows, highlighting hardwood floors and comfortable, stylish furniture.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, stepping inside. “This is... Grant, this is gorgeous.”

“That's not the best part.” He takes my hand and leads me through the main living area to what was once a small spare bedroom.

The space has been transformed into the writer's office of my dreams. A large desk faces windows overlooking the river.

Built-in bookshelves line one wall, already stocked with my favorite authors and more than a few empty spots that whisper of future spines with my name on them.

The other wall features a digital mapping system with pins marking global locations.

There's even a custom corkboard where I can track projects and deadlines.

“You made me an office,” I whisper, emotion thick in my throat.

“I figured if you're going to write these books, you need a proper space.” He shifts, suddenly uncertain. “Unless you'd rather work at my place, or somewhere else, which is completely fine. This is just an option. No pressure.”

My throat’s already tight, but he keeps going.

“There’s even a hidden cabinet stocked with snacks. And the chair’s one of those ergonomic ones that’s supposed to prevent writer hunchback, but if it gives you sciatica, we’ll light it on fire and try again.”

He pauses, then gestures behind me. “Also... the vase.”

I turn and spot it immediately—on the corner of the desk, proudly perched like a crown jewel.

A round cream ceramic vase... filled with what looks like the most determined collection of beige potpourri ever assembled.

Dried petals, twisted bark curls, and something that may or may not be cinnamon sticks.

“You like it?” he asks, hopeful.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“I love it,” I say solemnly. “I love these dead flowers so damn much I might write a novel about them.”

Grant’s chest actually puffs with pride. “Knew it.”

God. This man. This ridiculous, thoughtful, potpourri-hunting cowboy.

I blink rapidly, trying to fight the sting in my eyes, but it’s useless. Because this isn’t just a desk or a room. It’s a space built with his hands, his heart. Every shelf. Every wire. Every damn decorative cinnamon stick.

He notices me getting quiet and steps closer, touching my lower back. “You okay?”

I nod, swallowing thickly. “I just... I’ve never had someone do something like this for me before.”

“Well,” he says softly, tugging the brim of his hat lower to hide his face, “guess I’m gonna have to get used to being the first.”

I turn to face him, taking in the vulnerability beneath his confident exterior. This man flew across an ocean for me, stood by me through Olympic pressure, and now he's created a space that honors my work, my passion.

“It's perfect,” I tell him, rising on tiptoes to press my lips to his. “Absolutely perfect.”

He visibly relaxes, arms coming around my waist. “I wasn't sure if you'd want your own space or—”

“Grant Taylor,” I interrupt, resting my hands on his chest, “are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I'm giving you options,” he clarifies. “This cottage is yours. My place is yours too, if you want it. Hell, we could split time between both if that works. I just want you in my life, Mia. However that looks.”

The sincerity in his voice melts something frozen inside me—that part that always planned escape routes, that kept belongings minimal for quick departures.

“There's something else I need to show you,” he says, taking my hand again. “Something that might help with the decision.”

We return to the truck and drive the short distance to his property. Instead of turning toward the house, he follows a newly graveled path that curves behind his barn.

When we crest the small hill, I gasp.

There, nestled perfectly into the landscape, is the outline of what can only be a swimming pool—not the typical backyard variety, but a professional-length lap pool currently under construction.

“What did you do?” I whisper, emotion threatening to choke me.

“Talked to Suzi,” he explains, parking the truck. “Asked what you'd need to maintain Olympic-level training between competitions. She sent specs.” He gestures toward the construction. “Fifty meters, temperature-controlled, with resistance jets if you want to simulate current.”

I step out of the truck on shaky legs, moving closer to the in-progress pool. The excavation is complete, with concrete forms outlining what will eventually be my training facility.

“You built this for me?” My voice cracks on the question.

“Building,” he corrects, coming to stand beside me. “Construction company says another two months before it's swimmable.”

I turn to face him, tears streaming freely now. “Why?”

“Because I know how much swimming means to you. Because I never want you to feel like loving me means giving up part of yourself.” He reaches up to brush away my tears with his thumb. “Because I love watching you in the water, Mia. You become something magical, something entirely yourself.”

I launch myself at him, arms wrapping around his neck as I press my face against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong beneath my ear, a rhythm I've come to rely on.

“Thank you,” I whisper against his chest.

His strong arms tighten around me. “Don't thank me yet. Wait till you see my attempts at pool maintenance. Disaster waiting to happen.”

I laugh through my tears, pulling back to look at him. “I love you, so much it terrifies me sometimes.”

“Well, good thing even brave girls get scared sometimes,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady as he presses his forehead to mine.

“The difference is, they try anyway. And you, darlin’?

You’re the bravest woman I know.” The words settle into my chest like a balm—my Mom’s wisdom, reborn in his voice, wrapped in his warmth, laced with his quiet kind of magic.

***

The Taylor family dinner table hasn't changed—still overflowing with food, conversation, and inappropriate commentary. What's changed is me, sitting here not as a reluctant guest but as someone who belongs.

“So then Grant faceplants trying to find the right gate at Heathrow,” Lily recounts to the table's delight, “calling me in a panic because, and I quote, 'all the signs are in some weird British language.'”

“English, Grant,” Ryan deadpans. “The language was English.”

“Someone called the restroom a 'water closet'!” Grant defends himself. “How was I supposed to know what that meant?”

“Context clues,” Connor suggests, earning himself a dinner roll to the head.

I laugh, feeling the last piece of tension I've been carrying release. This chaos, this family—I've missed them with an intensity that surprised me.

“Mia, honey, we framed your magazine cover,” Celia says, gesturing to the wall where my article now hangs proudly alongside family photos. “Eric's been showing it to everyone who comes to the ranch.”

“Told the feed supplier my future daughter-in-law's famous,” Eric adds with a wink. “Got us a discount.”

“Dad!” Grant protests, his ears turning that adorable shade of red.

“What? I'm manifesting,” Eric insists. “And you know she's got my approval. Any woman who can get my stubborn-ass son on an airplane is clearly miracle-worker material.”

“I think we all know who really deserves credit for this relationship,” Lily interjects, raising her wine glass. “If I hadn't engineered that plumbing disaster and invited her to move in—”

“Engineered?” Christian exclaims. “It was my mistake!”

“A mistake I conveniently didn't stop you from making,” Lily smirks.

As they dissolve into good-natured bickering, Grant's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently.

“Regrets?” he whispers, his eyes searching mine.

I look around the table—at Celia refilling plates without asking, Eric demonstrating how I “swam like a damn mermaid” at the Olympics, Lily and Christian fighting over who deserves matchmaking credits, Connor rolling his eyes at his unruly siblings, Ryan pretending to be above it all while hiding a smile, and Mason watching with that quiet unspoken protectiveness he usually reserves for Grant and his twin Devon—though lately, I’ve caught glimpses of it aimed at me, too.

“Not a single one,” I answer truthfully.

For the first time in my life, I'm not calculating distance to the nearest exit or planning my next destination. I'm simply here—in this moment, with these people, in this small Texas town I never meant to find .