And Grant Taylor? He was already getting under my skin.
So I ran.
Because it was easier. Safer. Familiar.
But now, alone with a half-drunk bottle of wine and the taste of him still on my lips, I’m not so sure anymore.
…because for the first time in a long damn time…
Running doesn’t feel like protection.
It feels like resistance.
Like I’m swimming against a current I don’t have the strength to fight anymore.
But I will.
I have to.
I mean, I’m not even staying in Portree.
I’m not going back to Wellington, so I wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him at the PR Agency. And Grant Taylor? Please. I’ll have Brè find me an Airbnb far enough out of town I’ll need a compass and two donkeys to get back.
In the meantime, I’ll write a few articles—maybe one about how fresh air is apparently a gateway drug for making out in restrooms—enjoy the weird novelty of a peaceful landscape, pretend I don’t like it, and get back to my real life. The one with chlorinated pool lanes, early morning call times, and medals waiting for my name to be called. I’ll be rested. Recharged. Ready to dive back into Olympic training with focused tunnel vision and zero distractions.
This was nothing more than a blip. A blip with biceps and a voice that made my spine arch on instinct. But still—a blip.
It meant nothing.
Just one night. One kiss. One cowboy.
Whatever that…momentwas between Grant and me? It’s over. Done. A spark in a storm that fizzled the second I walked out that bar door.
I won’t see him again.
And honestly? That’s for the best.
Because guys like Grant Taylor? They’re dangerous. They crack things open. Things I’ve spent years nail gluing shut. Things like desire. And comfort. And beingseen.
And I don’t want to be seen.
I want control. Distance. Predictability.
I want anything buthim.
So I’m fine. I’msofine. Everything’s so, so fine.
I take the last sip of my wine, slip into my silky pj’s and click off the bedside lamp, sliding under the sheets with the self-satisfaction of a woman who has definitely made up her mind and will absolutely not second-guess any of it.
Except…
When I close my eyes, it’s not peace I find.
It’s hazel brown eyes that burn like summer storms. That small, crooked smirk that kicks my stomach into somersaults. The brush of scruff on my neck. The warmth of his palm against my cheek. Those low, wreck-me murmurs that settle deep in my bones.
And in my dreams, I don’t run.
In my dreams, I stay.
