I cough. Loud. “It’s hot,” I say, which is not an answer.
His eyes narrow at my soaked jeans. “You swam… indenim?” one eyebrow quirked.
I throw my arms out. “I was hot and trying to remainrespectfulin the presence of aguest, Ryan.” I gesture to Mia. “I layered. For modesty.”
Mia makes a choking noise behind me. Probably trying not to die laughing.
Ryan stares at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “Riiight. Modesty. Wet jeans are known for their chastity-preserving qualities.”
I wave him off, and adjust the hem of my shirt strategically. “Did you need something or are you just out here giving fashion critiques like a cowboy GQ expert?”
He smirks. “Got a heifer tangled in barbed wire by the south gate. Figured my brother, the wet denim saint, might want to help.”
“I’ll be there in ten,” I mutter, desperate to usher himanywhere but here.
He throws me one last look—amused, all-knowing—and disappears back up the trail.
I turn to find Mia brushing down her sundress, shoulders shaking, still trying to contain her laughter. Her eyes are shining, her mouth curved like she’s tasting something she’ll never forget.
“Modesty?” she whispers, biting her bottom lip.
“What?” I say, mock offended. “I’m agentleman.”
“You’re a menace.”
I step close, press a quick kiss to her temple. “And you, swim champ, are going to be the death of me.”
We walk back toward the house, the wet squish of my jeans reminding me of every bad life choice I’ve ever made. Still, I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world.
Her fingers brush mine, and I take her hand, squeezing it once.
Our time’s limited. We both know that.
But damn if I’m not going to makeevery secondcount.
Chapter 27
Grant
I slip out of bed at 4:30 AM, moving like a cowboy ninja avoiding landmines—mostly because one wrong step on the creaky board by my dresser would blow my cover. Outside, the world’s still ink-black, stars scattered like spilled glitter across the Texas sky. It’s stupid early. Perfect.
Mia won't be up for hours. Not even Olympic swimmers torture themselves this early.
In the kitchen, I brew a cup of coffee strong enough to raise the dead, sipping it black as I go through my stash of carefully hoarded supplies. Laminated distance markers, training signs I printed and laminated at the Wellington PR office, under the guise of “marketing collateral.” Folks there think I’m running a calf-branding workshop. Close enough. I gather the gear I hunted down like a backwoods scavenger. A few pieces of equipment that took some creative searching to locate. I even labelled the bags. I don’t want to talk about it.
It's been one week since Mia and I had our delicious swim together and I can still taste her on my tongue. She’s been busy training at the river every day and it’s amazing how natural she fits here already. Her shiny boots pile next to my work boots by the door; her shampoo smells like coconut and clings to my towel. In the evenings she trades river laps for gossip with Lily and Annie at the Caffeine Drip—all three of them bent over lattes, like old friends, plotting something that makes them cackle loud enough to shake the pastry case. Twice this week she’s ridden shotgun to dinner at my parents’ place. Mama sets an extra plate without asking. Dad winks over brisket. Theydon’t say a word; they don’t have to. Thatlooksays,About damn time, son.
Things with Mia are damn near perfect. She even planned a “reverse date”—her words—built for me from the boots up: steak grilled over an open fire, cold beers on the tailgate, old country music humming low, and slow dancing beneath a sky full of stars. No pressure, no big talks. Just her, fully in my world, wordless ways that mean everything.
Next day, she tried baking me a cake from scratch—absolutely butchered it. Lopsided, sunken, sweet as hell. She still presented it like it deserved a prize, wearing a glittery tiara and a triumphant grin. I ate it with a straight face and told her it was gourmet. Then I got that chocolate icing exactly where I wanted it—on all my most favorite parts of her body. And I made sure I cleaned it up slow. Real slow.
Later that night, she handed me a folded piece of paper, cheeks pink like she’d just wrangled a bull topless in front of a crowd. I raised a brow, half-expecting it to be a shopping list. Nope. It was a poem.A poem—written by Mia, titled (and I quote),“Ode to a Cowboy and His Distractingly Large Biceps.”
It was ridiculous—in the best damn way. Four stanzas of pure chaos: something about how his shoulders were carved by angels who bench-press cattle, how his jeans should be illegal in five states, and how his lasso wasn’t the only thing that left her breathless. There was a line about his “jaw sharper than her eyeliner” and another that claimed he “rode her harder than taxes hit the middle class.”
It was sweet, hilarious, and had just enough filth in it to guarantee I’d never read it in front of my parents.
I read it twice. Then pulled her into my lap and kissed her like she just solved world peace with cowboy smut. Because hell if that poem didn’t knock the wind clean outta my lungs.
