Page 9 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

I'm barely through the door of my ranch house when my phone rings.

Dad's name flashes across the screen, and I already know what's coming. News travels faster than light in Portree.

“Boy, you got somethin’ you wanna share with the class?” Dad says the moment I answer, laughter barely contained in his voice.

When I don’t answer he continues “Tell me Dr. Malan didn't actually prescribe you yoga,” making no effort to curb his laughter.

Fucking snitching Betty.

I sigh, dropping my keys on the counter. “Hello to you too, Dad.”

“Yoga, son? What's next? Scented candles and chanting?”

I huff. “I take it he’s not heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Oh no, this came from a reliable source, and you know, the good doctor was doing a public service, son,” Dad shoots back, voice full of glee. “Prescribed the whole damn town a big ol' dose of comedic relief right here.”

I rub my forehead. “Glad my rotator cuff is your punchline of the week.”

“You got off lucky,” he snorts. “Back in my day, we didn’t have yoga. We had duct tape and cussing.”

“Yeah, well, your day also had mullets and denim shorts with socks up to your knees. Let’s not get nostalgic.”

“Anyway,” trying my best to sound unfazed. “Doc says it'll help with flexibility without putting stress on the joint.”

The hearty laugh that explodes through the phone makes me hold it away from my ear. “Wait till the boys at the Whisky Barrell hear about this! Grant Taylor in yoga pants!”

“I'm not wearing yoga pants,” I snap, though I have no idea what I'm supposed to wear. He barks out a laugh, “Damn shame! You got them long legs—reckon you’d be a hit.”

I shake my head, but despite myself, I grin. The man lives for this kind of shit.

“Dad, can you not broadcast this to the entire county?” I plead

“Too late.” He's wheezing now. “I already texted your mother.”

Perfect.

“Great, Dad. Thanks for the support.”

“Oh, come on, it's funny! My bull-riding son doin’ downward dog with a bunch of wine moms!”

I rub my temple where a headache is forming. “It's physical therapy, not a lifestyle choice.”

“Next thing you know, you'll be doing Reiki voodoo with love and light shining out your root ass or some shit.”

“That's not even—you know what? I gotta go.”

“Don't forget to breathe through your third eye!” Dad calls out before I hang up.

I toss my phone onto the couch and stare at the prescription in my hand. Pain meds I can handle. But yoga? In Portree? Where everyone knows me? Yet the alternative—giving up riding—isn't an option. Not when it's the one thing that makes me feel alive, that connects me to Jake's memory.

The screen door creaks open like it knows better than to get in my brother’s way. He walks in carrying two heavy paper bags like they're filled with feathers instead of half the grocery store.

Still dressed in a faded tee stretched across shoulders built like a freight train, his combat boots thud against the tiles as he makes a beeline for the kitchen island. Christian is wearing that troublemaker grin of his, that look that always makes me very nervous.

“Heard you're becoming a yogi,” he says, pushing past me into the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ, did Dad call everyone?”

Christian sets the bags down with military precision. Nothing rolls. Nothing tips. Everything in perfect alignment.

“Group text. Complete with yoga pose emojis.” He pulls out flour, sugar, and other baking supplies. “Mama’s birthday donuts await, big brother. Time to get your mind off your impending spiritual awakening.”

“Alright,” he mutters, rolling up his sleeves, “Mama said powdered sugar, not store-bought glaze this time. So we’re doing this old school.”

I raise an eyebrow as he pulls out flour, eggs, and a dozen other ingredients I couldn’t name even under oath. “You know most Marines unwind by hitting the gym, not deep-frying dough in their brother’s kitchen, right?”

Christian shrugs, already reaching for the mixing bowls. “Sure, but Mama says homemade donuts taste like love.”

“And you believe her?”

He glances at me, smirking like he’s already won this argument. “I believe in not disappointing the woman who taught me how to throw a right hook.”

Christian starts measuring flour. “And I promised her you'd help me not burn down the kitchen this time.”

“Fine,” I concede, washing my hands. “But if you mention yoga again, I'm dumping flour on your head.”

We work in an easy silence, broken only by the soft clink of utensils and the rhythmic whisking of batter.

The smell of vanilla and something warm begins to sneak into the air.

Then the back door slides open with a whoosh, and in strolls Lily in a bikini, towel slung over her shoulder and the confidence of someone who’s been eavesdropping the entire time.

“Namaste, brother,” she says with a straight face, hands pressed together like she’s about to bless me with a crystal.

I flick water at her. “Not you too.”

She laughs, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “I'm actually proud of you. Maybe yoga will help with that stick up your ass, too.”

“There's no stick up my ass,” I grumble.

“Please,” Lily scoffs. “You haven't had fun in years. It's all rodeo, work, meaningless hookups, repeat.”

Christian whispers dramatically, “She's right, you know.”

I point a wooden spoon at him. “Less commentary, more mixing.”

Lily heads for the deck. “I'll be sunbathing if you need yoga pose suggestions.”

After she leaves, Christian turns the mixer to high, sending flour flying everywhere.

“For fuck's sake!” I lunge for the dial, turning it down. “This is why Mama doesn't trust you alone with appliances.”

“Sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all. He glances at the sink, then pours leftover cooking oil straight down the drain.

“What are you doing?” I grab his wrist but it’s too late. “You can't put that much oil down the sink!”

Christian blinks at me. “Why not?”

“Because it solidifies in the pipes!” I explain, exasperated. “Remember the great Christmas clog of 2019?”

“That wasn't my fault,” he protests.

“The plumber found an entire stick of butter in the pipe.”

Christian shrugs. “It slipped.”

I shake my head, turning on hot water to flush the drain. “If this causes problems, you're dealing with it.”

“Fine, but can we get back to more important topics? Like how your yoga class is tomorrow morning at the Portree Gym, and hot Annie from the coffee shop is the instructor.”

I freeze. “How do you know my class schedule?”

His grin widens. “Mama signed you up already. Said if she left it to you, you'd conveniently forget.”

Of course she did. The Taylor family efficiency at work. “Is there anyone in town who doesn't know about this?”

“Probably that hot city girl you helped at Wellington yesterday,” Christian says casually, stirring batter. “Amanda mentioned you were acting weird around her.”

I nearly drop the bowl I'm holding. “Amanda needs to mind her own business.”

Christian's eyebrows shoot up. “Oh damn. You like her.”

“I don't even know her,” I protest, too quickly.

“But you want to.” Christian points the batter-covered spoon at me. “I haven't seen that look since Jessica Wagner in high school.”

“There's no look.”

“Oh, there's definitely a look.”

“Drop it, Christian,” I warn, but my voice lacks conviction. “She's just passing through town. Got her flights mixed up or something.”

Christian wiggles his eyebrows. “A woman of mystery. No wonder you're intrigued.”

“I'm not—” I start, but catch myself. Why am I denying it? “Fine. She's interesting. Different. Doesn't give a damn about the Taylor name or rodeo championships.”

“Sounds terrifying,” Christian says, pouring batter into donut molds. “No wonder you're smitten.”

“I'm not smitten,” I argue, though something in my chest tightens at the thought of her. Those sharp aquatic blue eyes. That unimpressed look when I introduced myself. “She's just... refreshing.”

“Refreshing,” Christian repeats with a smirk. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

I flick flour at his face. “Shut up and bake asshole.”

For the next hour, we focus on not destroying my kitchen, while making Mama’s favorite maple bacon donuts. By the time Lily returns from sunbathing, we've actually produced something resembling edible food.

“Not bad,” she says, inspecting our work. “They almost look professional.”

“Told you we didn't need your help,” Christian boasts.

I snort. “You tried to substitute salt for sugar.”

“An honest mistake!” he holds his arms up in surrender.

Lily grabs her purse from the counter. “Well, culinary disasters aside, I've got to run. Hot date tonight.”

Christian and I turn at the exact same time, like we’ve been choreographed. “With who?” we ask in unison.

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “None of your business, overprotective brothers. It’s just a guy from somewhere.”

“You could at least tell us his name,” I prod, already sensing this is going to turn into another incident.

“Nope.” She pops the p dramatically. “Last time I introduced someone, you ran a background check.”

“Dad helped,” Christian says with a straight face, like dragging our retired rancher father into FBI-level recon is somehow exonerating.

“Not helping your case,” Lily shoots back, grabbing her keys.

I raise an eyebrow at Christian, who just shrugs, totally unapologetic. “Look, I called in one favor. One. And it was with a guy I served with who now works for an agency that specializes in tracking people. It's not like I waterboarded the guy.”

Lily spins back toward us. “You found out he had a pet tarantula named Beyoncé and collected Victorian-era baby teeth.”

Christian deadpans, “Which saved you the trouble of sitting through a three-hour dinner with a man who refers to soup as ‘moist broth art.’”

I bite my knuckle to keep from laughing.

Lily groans like we’ve personally ruined her faith in romance. “One of these days, I’m going to go on a date without it turning into a CIA field op.”