Christian deadpans, “Which saved you the trouble of sitting through a three-hour dinner with a man who refers to soup as ‘moist broth art.’”
I bite my knuckle to keep from laughing.
Lily groans like we’ve personally ruined her faith in romance. “One of these days, I’m going to go on a date without it turning into a CIA field op.”
Lily blows us kisses as she heads for the door. “By the way, Grant, those yoga pants Mason dropped off are on your bed. See you tomorrow bright and early!”
The door slams shut behind her before I can respond.
“Mason brought yoga pants?” Christian doubles over laughing.
“I'm gonna to kill them both,” I mutter, though there's no real heat behind it. My family's relentless teasing is just their way of showing love.
After Christian leaves with the donuts safely boxed up, I find myself alone in the quiet house. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. I wander onto the back porch, beer in hand, and settle into the rocking chair that used to be my grandfather's.
From here, I can see most of the Taylor family ranch—the barn where I learned to ride, the corral where Jake fell off his first horse, the distant tree line where we used to play hide and seek as kids. This land is in my blood, has shaped everything I am.
So why does it sometimes feel like a trap?
I take a long pull from my beer, my thoughts drifting to Mia. The way she looked at me like I was just a man, not a legacy. Not Grant Taylor, rodeo champion and Taylor heir. Just a guy who happened to pick up her underwear in a store.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mason.
Mason:Hope you like the pants brother. Want me to come for moral support?
Me:Touch my shoulder during class and die.
His response comes immediately.
Mason:Wouldn't dream of it. But seriously, Annie is a brutal instructor. Don't eat breakfast.
Great. Not only am I doing yoga, I'm doing it with Portree's toughest instructor.Thought yoga is supposed to be relaxing.
And half the town probably already has tickets to watch.
I finish my beer and head inside, curiosity getting the better of me.
In my bedroom, I find a package on my bed—black athletic pants and a t-shirt with “Namaste, Y'all” printed across the chest. A sticky note in Mason's handwriting says: “Dress for success.”
“Asshole,” I mutter, though I can't help laughing.
I toss the joke shirt aside but try on the pants. They're surprisingly comfortable, though I'd rather be caught dead than admit it.
Sleep eludes me that night. My shoulder throbs despite the pain meds, and my mind keeps circling back to a pair of intelligent blue eyes and a sharp tongue. What is it about this woman that's gotten under my skin so quickly? She's everything I usually avoid—city-smart, independent, probably thinks cowboys are a walking stereotype.
Yet I found myself calling the Sunset Motel to arrange her stay, making sure she had somewhere decent while stranded. I haven't done something like that for a stranger in... well, ever.
***
When my alarm blares at 6 AM, I seriously consider ignoring it. But the dull ache in my shoulder reminds me why I'm doing this. I've never backed down from a challenge, and I'm not starting now—even if that challenge involves stretchy pants and a room full of soccer moms.
The Portree Gym is practically empty when I arrive at 6:45, thankfully. I slip into the studio at the back, choosing a spot in the far corner where I can make a quick escape if things get too weird. The borrowed yoga mat feels foreign under my feet as I awkwardly stand there, wishing I were anywhere else.
A few women filter in, doing double-takes when they spot me. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, ignoring the whispers and giggles. This was a mistake. I should just increase my pain meds and—
“Well, this is unexpected.”
That voice. I know that voice.Hervoice.
