And as if things couldn’t get any better, there’s the passport “delay.”
The State Department’s overseas server crash—some genius tripped a power relay in D.C., froze every foreign-issued passport in the system. Phones jammed, embassies scrambling, expedited applications tossed in limbo. Bad luck for most travelers…but it buys Mia another three, maybe four weeks right here. Coincidence? I don’t buy it. Feels like fate’s leaning on the clock, giving me a fighting chance to show her why this ranch—and maybe this cowboy—could be home.
I keep catching myself grinning at nothing, tasting river water that still reminds me of her. And each day the maildoesn’tbring that little envelope, I thank whatever glitchy server keeps her exactly where I want her: under my roof, in my arms, and just maybe in my future.
My phone buzzes with a text back from Mason.
Mason:You’ve lost your damn mind, Taylor.
I snort and type back.
Me:Probably. Still coming to help?
Three dots appear, then:
Mason:On my way. But for the record, this is the most elaborate way to get laid I've ever witnessed.
Me: The romance budget was approved by the Board of One. Bring coffee.
I pocket my phone. This isn't about sex. Okay, it’s notjustabout sex. That is... yeah, incredible. But this? This is about making her feel like she’s meant to be here. Valued. If she’s going to leave—and she will eventually, she says she will—I just want to give her one hell of a reason to hesitate.
Twenty minutes later his truck rattles up, headlights off, shirt half-buttoned, hair arguing with gravity. He steps out, squints at the pile of lane buoys and turn-boards in the bed of my truck, and whistles low.
“Morning, Sunshine,” I say, as he hands me a thermos. “Ready to commit minor engineering violations?”
“You know she's still leaving, right?” he asks, helping me lift a weighted buoy.
“Appreciate the pep talk,” I mutter, more sharply than intended, lugging a weighted buoy. “Look, I know she's leaving. I'm not building her a house…yet.”
“No, just a professional training facility,” he deadpans. “I don’t want to see you hurt, man—going through all this trouble.”
I set the buoy down with a thud. “Trouble? This is a grand gesture with a side of cardio. And if I recall,youtold me not to half-ass it. Consider this full-ass.”
He snorts. “Full-ass, huh? Bold strategy, Cotton.”
“Look, Mason—she’s got one foot out the door. I can’t chain her here, but I can give her a reason to slow down on the way out.”
“And if she still goes?”
“Then she goes knowing exactly how wanted she is,” I say. “Can’t lose points for effort.”
He studies me for a long beat, then nods and cracks a smile. “Growth. I like it.” He slaps my shoulder. “Let's go build your mermaid’s swimmin' hole.”
I toss him a length of rope. “Grab the post-driver. And try not to ruin my romantic momentum.”
He shrugs, already turning to the truck.
“Roger that. Wouldn’t dream of it.” he says, climbing into the bed.
“But if this ends with you marrying a world champion and me giving a best-man speech? I’m opening with ‘Remember when Grant tried to hide a mile-long hard-on in wet jeans?’”
He wags his phone. “Ryan couldn’t wait to share that one—said it was the highlight of his week. Ain’t nothing private in this town, brother.”
“Do that,” I grunt, hefting the post-driver, “and I’m signing you up for the bouquet toss in chaps.”
He laughs, shoulders a buoy, and we head for the river—two idiots in the dark, building a dream the whole town will hear about by lunchtime. He’s damn right, ain’t nothing private around here, but for once, I don’t mind.
The sky is barely beginning to lighten as we reach the river, casting everything in a soft blue glow. I lead Mason to the areas I've already cleared, explaining my plan.
