“Of course you didn't. You left to conquer your own.” There's no accusation in his voice, just simple fact. “Look, Mia, I'm not trying to guilt you. You had your reasons. But if you still care—”
“I do,” I whisper, the admission freeing something tight in my chest.
“God, I do.”
“Then maybe he should hear that from you, not me.”
I wipe tears from my cheeks, suddenly aware I'm crying. “They're keeping him overnight for a few days?”
“Yeah, so the good news—if we’re calling it that—is while they’re gluing back the dozen bones he shattered playing cowboy hero, they’re also finally fixing that bum shoulder he’s been too damn stubborn to get looked at for years. The Taylor family's all here, taking shifts. He’s gonna be real pissed when he wakes up and realizes he’s in a backless hospital gown with nothing butJell-O on the menu and zero say in any of it.”
A watery laugh escapes me, picturing Grant's indignation.
“Well at least he gets to wake up next to the Super Series trophy and a fat-ass paycheck, seeing as he only went and won the whole damn thing… right before almost meeting his maker.” Mason chuckles.
The words make my breath catch. My chest swells with pride so fierce it nearly knocks me off my feet.He did it.Even bruised and broken, Grant Taylor is the kind of man who puts everything on the line—for the ride, for the people he loves, for me. My heart thunders, not just with pride, but with something deeper. Something terrifying and achingly real.
Mason clears his throat. “By the way…it was Grant’s mama who dropped those envelopes on his desk. The ones with your documents.”
I blink, stunned. “What?”
“New postman got confused, stuck ’em in their mailbox. She didn’t think anything of it—just said they looked important and left ’em on his desk.”
A sharp breath escapes me. “Why didn’t he say anything?”
There’s a long pause, then Mason exhales like he’s tired of people not getting it. “Because that’s not the kind of man he is, Mia. Doesn’t explain himself unless you ask real direct. He just…does.
Another pause.
He shows up. He fixes things. Builds damn training rivers, spends all night laying new floors with splinters in his palms and a busted shoulder, because he wants you to feel at home. He drives all over creation lookin’ for dead flowers—I’m told are called ‘potpourri’—in cream-colored vases and getting way too darn many matching throw pillows—like some interior design cowboy—just ‘cause he thinks it’ll make you smile when you walk into the place and then to top it all off, nearly gets himself killed for people he cares about.”
Mason’s voice drops lower. Rougher.
“So no, he didn’t tell you his Mama dropped off your passport. Didn’t think to explain the cottage sooner. But he’s been screaming how much he loves you in every way he knows how. You just weren’t listening in his language.”
I press my hand to my chest, suddenly breathless.
He did all that, for me?
My eyes sting and my voice cracks. “Mason…”
“Will you tell him—” I stop, uncertain.
“Tell him what?”
“Nothing. Just... tell him Jakob is lucky to have him.”
Chapter 35
Grant
I'm halfway through trying to scratch beneath my cast with a ruler when Mama slaps my hand away like I'm five, not twenty-eight.
“Grant Taylor, touch that cast one more time and I'll duct tape oven mitts to your hands,” she threatens, replacing the ruler with a plate of brisket I don't have the stomach for.
“I wasn't even...” The lie dies on my lips when she raises an eyebrow. One does not bullshit Celia Taylor. “Fine. But it itches like fire ants are having an orgy under there.”
“Charming imagery.” She pushes the plate closer. “Eat. Doctor says you need protein to heal.”
