And the worst part?
I hate that I want him to do it again.
Chapter 8
Mia
I spend the rest of the day hiding in my motel room, furiously typing a travel piece about Maine from memory. Anything to avoid thinking about that moment in yoga class.About him.
By evening, I'm climbing the walls.
My phone pings with a text from Annie, whom I’m grateful I went and introduced myself to before class and exchanged numbers with after awkwardly apologizing for disrupting her class session:
Annie: “Drinks at The Whisky Barrell tonight? 8PM? Us girls gotta stick together!”
Perfect. Exactly what I need—alcohol and conversation with someone who isn't a frustratingly attractive cowboy.
Me:“Count me in!”
The Whisky Barrel is packed when I arrive, the Friday night crowd spilling onto the wooden deck outside. Country music thrums through speakers, and the smell of beer and whiskey hangs in the air. The crowd is loud and there’s enough denim and cowboy hats in here to warrant its own rodeo.
My little black dress clings like a second skin—low at the back, high at the hem, with a teasing dip at the neckline that’s barely legal and entirely intentional. It’s elegant. It’s sinful. It’s a walking contradiction, much like me.
My brown waves fall loose over one shoulder, tousled like I didn’t spend twenty minutes perfecting the mess. And these boots? Polished, pointed, and made for stepping over lines.
I don’t blend in.
I don’t plan to.
Scanning the room for Annie, I see no sign of her petite frame.
Just then my phone buzzes.
Annie:“Sorry, running late. Start without me! Order the Tumbleweed—it's amazing.”
Great. I shove my phone back into my bag and push my way to the bar, squeezing between two men arguing about cattle prices. The only open seat is at the far end, next to a broad-shouldered figure in a familiar cowboy hat.
Because of course it is.
I consider leaving—I really do—but stubbornness wins out.
I refuse to let Grant Taylor dictate where I can go in this tiny town.
Sliding onto the barstool, deliberately not looking his way.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
“I’ve been told the Tumbleweed is good here”
The bartender looks confused. “The what now?”
“Um, a Tumbleweed? Annie recommended it.”
I feel heat on my skin from the eyes of the man next to me.
Recognition dawns on the bartender’s face. “Oh, that's not on the menu. That's just something I make for Annie.” He leans closer. “Honestly, it's pretty strong. Not everyone's cup of tea.”
“I'll have what the lady's having,” Grant's voice cuts in before I can respond.
