And sitting beside him now, months later, our fingers brushing between gear shifts, I know it wasn’t just gold I won that day.
It was him. Always him.
“We're making a quick detour,” Grant announces, snapping me out of my daydream and turning onto a familiar dirt road that makes my pulse quicken.
“The cottage?”
“Got some things to show you.”
My curiosity piques as we pull up to what once was the site of my fateful plumbing disaster. But the cottage before us barely resembles the place I fled from months ago. The exterior has been completely renovated—fresh paint, new shutters, a wraparound porch with actual rocking chairs.
“Grant, what did you do?”
“Might've made a few improvements.” He cuts the engine, looking simultaneously proud and nervous. “You should see inside before you judge.”
I step out into the Texas heat, the familiar weight of it settling on my skin like a welcome embrace. Grant leads me up the porch steps, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back—a habit he's developed that makes me feel both protected and desired.
“Ready?” he asks, producing a key attached to a small swimming medal keychain.
“Did you steal my junior nationals medal for a keychain?”
“Borrowed,” he corrects, sliding the key into the lock. “For sentimental value.”
The door swings open to reveal an interior I barely recognize. Gone are the dated fixtures and tired furnishings, replaced by a seamless blend of modern amenities and rustic charm. Natural light pours through expanded windows, highlighting hardwood floors and comfortable, stylish furniture.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, stepping inside. “This is... Grant, this is gorgeous.”
“That's not the best part.” He takes my hand and leads me through the main living area to what was once a small spare bedroom.
The space has been transformed into the writer's office of my dreams. A large desk faces windows overlooking the river. Built-in bookshelves line one wall, already stocked with my favorite authors and more than a few empty spots that whisper of future spines with my name on them. The other wall features a digital mapping system with pins marking global locations.There's even a custom corkboard where I can track projects and deadlines.
“You made me an office,” I whisper, emotion thick in my throat.
“I figured if you're going to write these books, you need a proper space.” He shifts, suddenly uncertain. “Unless you'd rather work at my place, or somewhere else, which is completely fine. This is just an option. No pressure.”
My throat’s already tight, but he keeps going.
“There’s even a hidden cabinet stocked with snacks. And the chair’s one of those ergonomic ones that’s supposed to prevent writer hunchback, but if it gives you sciatica, we’ll light it on fire and try again.”
He pauses, then gestures behind me. “Also... the vase.”
I turn and spot it immediately—on the corner of the desk, proudly perched like a crown jewel. A round cream ceramic vase... filled with what looks like the most determined collection of beige potpourri ever assembled. Dried petals, twisted bark curls, and something that may or may not be cinnamon sticks.
“You like it?” he asks, hopeful.
I stare at it. Then at him.
“I love it,” I say solemnly. “I love these dead flowers so damn much I might write a novel about them.”
Grant’s chest actually puffs with pride. “Knew it.”
God. This man. This ridiculous, thoughtful, potpourri-hunting cowboy.
I blink rapidly, trying to fight the sting in my eyes, but it’s useless. Because this isn’t just a desk or a room. It’s a space built with his hands, his heart. Every shelf. Every wire. Every damn decorative cinnamon stick.
He notices me getting quiet and steps closer, touching my lower back. “You okay?”
I nod, swallowing thickly. “I just... I’ve never had someone do something like this for me before.”
