Chapter 37
Grant
I'm moving against the current—a sea of bodies flowing one way while I push in the opposite direction. My cowboy hat, completely out of place in this London venue, bobs above the crowd like a buoy in choppy water. My broken arm throbs in its cast, pressed uncomfortably against my chest as I navigate through people who shoot me looks ranging from curious to annoyed.
But I don't give a single solitary fuck. Not when she's standing there on that podium, gold gleaming around her neck, looking like every dream I've had for the past eight weeks compressed into human form.
Mia. My Mia. Only she's not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but I just have to speak to her, touch her one last time, if she’ll let me.
“Sir, you can't go that way.” A security guard in a navy uniform steps into my path, hand raised. “The medal ceremony area is restricted.”
I stop, sizing him up—not as a threat, but as an obstacle between me and what matters. “I understand,” I say, injecting my voice with the same calm I use on spooked horses. “But that's my future wife up there.”
His eyebrows lift toward his hairline. “Your fiancée?” The doubt in his voice is thick enough to spread on toast.
“Mia Bonney. Gold medalist. Just won the 200-meter breaststroke.” I gesture to her with my good arm. “We got separated in the excitement. I've been trying to get back to her.”
He crosses his arms. “I'm sorry, sir, but I can't just—”
I cut him off by digging into my jeans pocket, pulling out my mother's ring—the one she'd pressed into my palm before I left, whispering, “Just in case.”
“Was planning to give her this after,” I say, letting the antique diamond catch the light. It's not technically a lie if the thought has crossed my mind approximately eight hundred times during the fifteen-hour journey here.
The guard's expression softens slightly. “That's lovely, but protocol states—”
“Look,” I interrupt, desperation seeping into my voice. “I flew six thousand miles with a broken arm to be here. First time ever overseas. Nearly threw up twice. Had to change in an airport bathroom with one goddamn hand. I haven't slept in thirty-sixhours.” I hold his gaze. “I know you've got a job to do, but I'm asking you, man to man—let me through so I can see my wife.”
He hesitates, glancing between me and Mia, who's now scanning the crowd, looking overwhelmed.
“Five minutes,” he finally says. “And if she doesn't know you, I'm personally escorting you out.”
“Fair enough.” I pocket the ring and duck past him before he changes his mind.
The crowd parts slightly as I approach the security barrier around the podium area. Without breaking stride, I vault over it one-handed—a move that sends pain shooting through my ribs but gets me several steps closer to her.
And then she sees me.
Our eyes lock across thirty feet of polished floor, and the rest of the arena—the spectators, the cameras, the other athletes—blur into insignificance. Mia's mouth drops open slightly, her gold medal catching the light as her chest rises with a sharp intake of breath.
I close the distance in strides that feel both too fast and achingly slow.
“Grant?” Her voice is barely audible, disbelief written across her features I've memorized in my dreams for weeks. “What are you—how did you—”
“Surprise,” I say lamely, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this is—me standing here in boots and jeans, arm in a cast, cowboy hat, in front of a woman who just made Olympic history.
Mia descends from the podium, moving toward me like she's underwater, cautious and fluid. “You never leave the ranch. You told me once you get hives crossing the county line.”
“That was hyperbole.” I step closer, close enough to smell the chlorine on her skin mixed with that citrus scent that's haunted me for weeks. “And some things are worth the discomfort.”
“Like what?” she challenges, something vulnerable flickering behind her eyes.
“Like showing up when my girl makes history.” The words slip out naturally, claiming her in a way I have no right to.
She doesn't correct me. Instead, she reaches out, fingers hovering just shy of touching my cast. “Your arm. The accident. I saw the news...”
“It'll heal.” I shrug, then wince at the movement. “Turns out I'm harder to kill than a cockroach.”
“What are you doing here, Grant?” Her voice cracks slightly, her calm façade slipping.
