“Mia, honey, we framed your magazine cover,” Celia says, gesturing to the wall where my article now hangs proudly alongside family photos. “Eric's been showing it to everyone who comes to the ranch.”
“Told the feed supplier my future daughter-in-law's famous,” Eric adds with a wink. “Got us a discount.”
“Dad!” Grant protests, his ears turning that adorable shade of red.
“What? I'm manifesting,” Eric insists. “And you know she's got my approval. Any woman who can get my stubborn-ass son on an airplane is clearly miracle-worker material.”
“I think we all know who really deserves credit for this relationship,” Lily interjects, raising her wine glass. “If I hadn't engineered that plumbing disaster and invited her to move in—”
“Engineered?” Christian exclaims. “It was my mistake!”
“A mistake I conveniently didn't stop you from making,” Lily smirks.
As they dissolve into good-natured bickering, Grant's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently.
“Regrets?” he whispers, his eyes searching mine.
I look around the table—at Celia refilling plates without asking, Eric demonstrating how I “swam like a damn mermaid” at the Olympics, Lily and Christian fighting over who deserves matchmaking credits, Connor rolling his eyes at his unruly siblings, Ryan pretending to be above it all while hiding a smile, and Mason watching with that quiet unspoken protectiveness he usually reserves for Grant and his twin Devon—though lately, I’ve caught glimpses of it aimed at me, too.
“Not a single one,” I answer truthfully.
For the first time in my life, I'm not calculating distance to the nearest exit or planning my next destination. I'm simply here—in this moment, with these people, in this small Texas town I never meant to find.
Chapter 39
Grant
Two Months later
I saddle Midnight, my palms so sweaty I nearly drop the bridle twice. Beside me, Mia's gracefully mounting Sunshine, her movements so fluid you'd think she grew up on a ranch instead of discovering horseback riding just months ago.
“You gonna tell me where we're headed, cowboy?” Mia asks, adjusting herself in the saddle. “Or is this another one of your Taylor family surprises that ends with me covered in something sticky?”
I snort, remembering last week's maple syrup disaster courtesy of Christian's latest kitchen experiment. “That was one time. And for the record, you looked mighty fine all sticky.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile playing at her lips tells me everything I need to know. Two months back in Portree, and she's slipped into our lives like she's always been here—writing in her cottage office by day, sleeping in my bed and in my arms every night, surprising all of us with how naturally she fits.
“Just trust me,” I say, nudging Midnight forward. “Got something to show you.”
“You said that yesterday when you blindfolded me, and it turned out to be a broken water heater.”
“Hey, that was important household infrastructure!”
“You just wanted an excuse to shower together at your place.”
I guide Sunshine alongside Midnight, close enough that our legs occasionally brush. Each point of contact sends electricity through my jeans.
“Can't blame a man for being efficient with water conservation.”
I chuckle, as we ride past the construction site where my—our?—lap pool has taking shape. The concrete has been poured, specialized filtration system installed. Just waiting on the final touches and filling. It'll be another week before Mia can swim in it, but watching her face light up every time she inspects the progress is worth every penny.
What started as a wild idea—building her a training space, unofficially dubbedTeam USA South—has turned into something bigger than either of us could’ve guessed. She’s built a full-on program for elite-level swimmers and young future Olympians. Dr. Mikhailov even agreed come out and run workshops a few times a year. Like it’s just a casual thing—getting the most sought-after sports therapist on the planet to fly out toTexas.
But that’s my Mia. Big dreams. Bigger follow-through. I built a pool because I love her and she’s gonna turn it into a damn Olympic satellite camp with branded towels and training regimens tight enough to make Navy SEALs sweat.
“My word, Grant, did you seriously convince them to install underwater speakers?” Mia points to the technicians running cables.
“Suzi said music helps with your pacing.” I shrug like it's nothing, like I haven't spent hours researching every possible training advantage.
