Page 7 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

I give him a look that would’ve felled a lesser man.

“Next time, Doc,” I say as I push open the door, “try not to crush a man’s pride and his shoulder in the same visit.”

“Just trying to keep you breathing, cowboy.” He chuckles.

He holds out a box of painkillers “And take these for the pain. But only as directed, Grant. I know how you cowboys like to push through.”

I pocket the prescription and meds with a nod. “Thanks, Doc.”

“But uhmm, if I walk in there and it’s all soccer moms and flexible retirees, I’m billing you for every ounce of shame.”

He just laughs. “Fair enough. But take it seriously, Grant. You’ve got years ahead of you still son— if you stop letting your pride write checks your body can’t cash.”

With those ominous words ringing in my ears, I walk out of his office.

The second the door creaks open, I mutter under my breath, “Yoga… namaste my ass.”

And of course, fate has a sense of humor, because who’s parked right outside the door on the sitting room bench with her oversized sunglasses and a notebook that’s never blank?

None other than Betty Bridge.

Queen of gossip.

Snitch of the South.

And now—eyewitness.

Her eyebrows launch skyward like I just told her I’m getting a Brazilian wax.

“Afternoon, Betty,” I mumble, tipping my hat, too late to backtrack. She’s already chewing the story like it’s fresh taffy, and I swear I can see her fingers twitching for her phone.

By lunch, half the town’s gonna know I’ve been ordered to stretch and breathe like a damn daisy in the wind. Fuck sakes .

I yank open the truck door and throw myself in, tossing the prescription on the passenger seat.

Slamming the door harder than needed—just for effect, just to get the frustration out before the town bulletin reads:

“Local Cowboy Prescribed Yoga—Is Grant Taylor Turning Zen?”

Hell. No.

But apparently… twice a week, I am getting bendy.

I tug my hat lower and sigh. The world doesn’t pause for broken cowboys. I need a plan. A cold drink. Or maybe just a damn miracle.

But even as I drive, my shoulder aches like it’s agreeing with him . Shit.

Looks like I’m going to yoga.

I head out to Wellington and decide to stop at the Millman's Department Store before heading into the office. Mom's birthday is next week, and I still haven't found her gift. Lily mentioned that Millman's just posted they received a shipment of those fancy bath products Mom loves.

The store's unusually quiet for a weekday morning, the kind of silence that hums beneath fluorescent lights and stale country music playing overhead.

I nod to Max behind the counter and make my way toward the section Lily described.

Boots scuff lightly against tile as I round the corner into the women's department—and nearly shoulder-check a rack of brightly-colored summer dresses.

“Whoa—sorry about that,” I say, steadying the soft body in my arms.

“Oh, I... I'm so sorry,” a soft voice replies, cool and clipped, but with the faintest flicker of embarrassment tucked under it.

That’s when I see the crime scene at our feet: a small pile of red lace and satin that must’ve slipped from her armful of clothes.

Underwear. Not just any underwear. The kind designed to kill men like me.

Well now.

Without thinking, I bend to pick it up, the lacy material slipping between my fingers. It’s lingerie. A damn pretty one, too.

I hear a sharp inhale above me.

“I can get my own underwear, thanks,” she snaps, but there’s a waver in it. A flicker of panic trying to hide under the attitude.

My eyes track up from the lace, slow and unbothered, trailing up perfectly defined legs, up her thighs, pausing at her waist—an instant uninvited thought of which I would grip first, crashes into my mind—before I look up at the woman standing frozen in front of me, arms full of clothes, cheeks flushed a deep, satisfying pink.

That kind of blush you don’t see often. Real. Uncontrolled.

My eyes catch hers—and the air leaves my lungs like I just got bucked off a bronc. Everything around us stills. The world doesn’t just slow—it waits.

Fuck.

Remaining crouched, I let my eyes drink all of her in—her hair’s dark and messy in that way that looks like she didn’t try, which means she probably tried just the right amount.

Ocean-blue eyes. Full mouth. Flushed cheeks that say she’s mortified—and maybe just a little curious.

Fitted tight black top hugging curves in all the right places, long toned legs wrapped in a skirt that shouldn't legally be allowed to tease that hard.

She’s beautiful. But it’s more than that.

It’s the tension in her shoulders, and the way her dark brown hair sits in waves over her shoulders, the wild flicker in her eyes, the way her lips part like she’s torn between yelling at me or bolting.

She’s not just stunning—she’s fire barely held in check.

Still crouched, still holding her panties—Jesus, what a sentence—I tip my hat like I’m not entirely undone. “Sorry, ma’am. Just tryin’ to help.”

Her eyes blow wide and her blush deepens to something criminal.

I should hand them back. I really should.

But I don’t. Not yet.

I straighten up slow, real slow, keeping my eyes on hers. She swallows. Good. That means she feels it too.

Finally, I dangle the lingerie between us like it ain’t the most distracting thing I’ve touched all week and let a slow, crooked grin pull at my mouth—the one that usually gets me out of trouble. Or deeper into it.

For some inexplainable reason I want to keep her right here for as long as I can.

And I can tell it’s working—her pulse kicks and she looks everywhere but at me right now.

“Wasn’t expectin’ to catch something quite this interesting today,” I say, voice low and lazy as a summer drawl, my grin curling at the edge of my mouth.

She scowls, lips tightening. “Yeah well, Congratulations. You’ve officially won the award for Most Inappropriate Thing to Be Holding Right Now.”

I chuckle, as she snatches the lace from my hand, our fingers brushing. A spark of electricity coursing through my arm.

She stuffs the panties into her pile like it burned.

Damn, she’s fun. I’ve wrangled bulls with less attitude than this woman’s throwing right now.

“Don’t reckon I entered that contest, darlin,’” I say, stepping in just a hair closer. Not touching. Just letting her feel the heat from my body. Her pulse flutters at her throat “but I’ll take the win.” I say with a wink.

There it is—snap.

The air thickens. Her mouth opens like she’s ready to argue, but nothing comes out. Eyes locked. Breath caught. Those baby blues… they hold fight, sure. But there's something else buried in them now. A flicker of curiosity.

She’s tall, her eyes nearly level with my chin. That close, I can see the flecks of green in her deep blue irises, and it’s like the room narrows to just her—like gravity’s got a favorite now, and it sure as hell isn’t playing fair, because my damn heartbeat forgets its rhythm for a second.

“Do you always help strange women pick up their underwear?” she asks, one brow arched, full of mock challenge and wicked amusement.

A single strand of hair is caught near her temple, fluttering just slightly with each breath she takes—and before I can stop myself, my hand moves. Fingers brush her cheek, slow and deliberate, tucking that rebel piece behind her ear like I’ve got every right.

She stills.

Doesn’t pull back.

Doesn’t say a damn word.

Just watches —those sharp, sea-glass eyes locked on mine, unblinking, unreadable. The moment stretches—tight and charged, like a held breath that no one wants to release. For one long heartbeat, everything stops but her eyes on mine.

I let a slow smile curve across my lips, the kind that usually works like a charm. “Only the pretty ones,” I say, letting the words land soft and easy as I extend my hand. “Grant Taylor.”

She looks at it. Then at me. And back again.

Doesn’t take it.

Just tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decide whether I’m dangerous or stupid. Then-

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Her voice is smooth, completely unimpressed—and it might be the sexiest thing I’ve heard all year.

I blink. Huh.

For the first time in years, I'm momentarily speechless.

That’s new.

Most people around here know my name and either want a favor or a photo.

Everyone in this part of Texas knows the Taylor name. Hell, most of the South does. But this woman? Doesn’t care. She just stares.

First time in a long while someone’s looked at me like I’m just some guy in a department store, that was holding a pair of panties.

“You're not from around here,” I state the obvious, recovering.

“What gave it away? My lack of a cowboy hat or my complete disinterest in your local celebrity status?” Her words are sharp, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

That does it. I bark out a laugh—genuinely—and lean back against the rack, giving her a little space but not too much.

“Definitely the hat. We issue ‘em at the county line, so you must’ve snuck in.”

She laughs, despite herself. It’s soft. Musical. And damn if it doesn’t hook right into something under my ribs, sending an unexpected thrill through me.

“I'm Mia. Not-from-around-here. Not even supposed to be here. Long story.” She says, waving her hand like she’s physically swatting the topic away, the universal gesture for please don’t ask .

Mia . It suits her. Sharp, elegant, unexpected.

She looks vaguely familiar.

“Well, Mia-not-from-around-here,” I drawl, letting her name curl slow on my tongue, “maybe I could show you around? Wellington's small, but it's got a few surprises.”

She tilts her head. “Tempting. But I don’t take detours from cowboys. I’m leaving soon. Swim training waits for no one.”

Swim training. She’s a swimmer?

That explains the phenomenal body. I lean back against the rack, winching slightly as my shoulder protests.

She notices.

Her eyes narrow “You okay?”

“Just an old rodeo injury,” I say casually, surprised that she picked up on my injury. “Nothing major.”

“Ah, so you’re one of those kind of cowboys.” She rolls her eyes, but it's playful. “The kind that rides bulls to impress women, gets thrown, then limp around and pretends it doesn't hurt.”

“I didn't get thrown,” I protest, oddly defensive. “I rode the full eight seconds.”

“Well congratulations,” she says dryly. “You must be a legend in testosterone-fueled pain denial.”

Her sarcasm is sharper than a branding iron. And I love it.

I let out a laugh that echoes too loud in the aisle. This woman. She’s sharp. Quick. And she’s got no idea what she’s doing to me right now.

“You’re something else,” I say, genuinely.

“So I’ve been told.” She glances at her watch. “Well” she claps her hands together “as fun as this is, I need caffeine and clean clothes.”

I step aside, gesturing grandly and tipping my hat. “Try Susan’s Diner on Main. Tell her Grant sent you. She'll fix you right up.” I say with a wink.

She walks past, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume— she smells like sunshine dipped in mischief—citrusy, a little wild. Utterly distracting. She doesn’t look back. But she knows I’m still watching.

And hell yes, I am.

I watch her sway her hips as she walks down the aisle, and realize I'm still smiling. Something about her lit a fuse I didn't know was still wired to anything.

Sharp. Stunning. Unimpressed. She got under my skin with one look and a sarcastic swipe.

I could chase her down. Offer her coffee. Dinner. A second shot.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, I pull out my phone, type into the search bar:

Mia, professional swimmer.

And when the face of that sharp-tongued, attitude-wrapped city girl—who doesn't give a damn about my name or my rodeo trophies—flashes across the screen, I grin.

Because, I’m not letting this one slip by.

Not a chance .