The world tilts sideways. “When?”
“The day of the accident.” He studies me carefully. “She was pretty torn up about it.”
My fingers tighten around the porch railing. “What did she say?”
“Asked if you were okay. About Jakob, too.” He pauses. “She cares, Grant. Still.”
Hope—that stubborn, stupid emotion I've been trying to smother—flares hot and bright in my chest. “Did she say anything else? About coming back or—”
“No.” Mason cuts me off gently. “But she wouldn't have called if she didn't give a damn.”
I absorb this, watching lightning flicker on the horizon. “It doesn't change anything. She's still in London, training for the Olympics. I'm still here, broken in more ways than one.”
“So that's it? The great Grant Taylor, who jumped in front of a charging bull, is just going to roll over on this?”
I turn to him, irritation flaring. “What do you expect me to do? Fly to London with my arm in a cast and beg her to give me another chance?”
Mason's expression doesn't change. “Why not?”
The question hangs between us, so simple it's ridiculous.
“Because...” I fumble for reasons that suddenly feel paper-thin. “Because she chose to leave. Because I screwed up once, and she might not forgive a second time. Because I've never left this place except for rodeo.”
“All I'm hearing are excuses.” Mason's voice hardens. “The Grant Taylor I pulled out of that bar fight in Wellington seven years ago wouldn't have quit this easily.”
The memory surfaces unbidden—me, nineteen years old, armed with a fake id and stupid with liquid courage, mouthing off to three roughnecks twice my size, Mason stepping in when they cornered me outside. The two of us, bloodied but standing, back-to-back against opponents who should have flattened us.
“That was different,” I argue. “We were drunk and outnumbered.”
“And now you're sober and defeating yourself before you even try.” He shakes his head. “The odds were worse back then, but at least you were swinging.”
Before I can respond, the porch door slides open, Lily and Christian stepping out.
Lily’s eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“What's happening out here? Secret meeting of the Broken Hearts Club?”
“Just getting some air,” I mutter.
“Bullshit. You've got that constipated look you get when you're having feelings.” She crosses her arms. “Spill it, cowboy.”
Mason smirks. “I was just suggesting your brother might want to take a trip.”
“A trip?” Lily's eyes widen. “Like, to London? To get our girl back?”
“She's not our—” I start, then stop. Because in some weird way, Mia had become part of this family, however briefly. “It's not that simple.”
“Actually, it is.” Christian pulls out his phone. “I have plenty of air miles. You could leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!” I sputter. “I just got out of the hospital. I have a ranch to run, animals that need—”
“Ryan and I will handle the ranch,” Mason interrupts.
“And I’ll feed your unhinged goat before he chews through your porch swing again,” Lily adds.
“Havoc’s not unhinged,” I grumble. “He’s just… spirited.” I defend automatically.
“The point is,” Lily continues, already scrolling through flight options, “there's nothing keeping you here that we can't manage. Except fear.”
