“Grant has many talents,” Eric says, raising his glass. “Dancing just isn't one of them.”
“And what are his talents?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Eric's grin turns mischievous. “Well—”
“Don't answer that,” Grant interrupts hastily.
The meal continues with more stories—Grant's first rodeo, Lily's brief rebellious phase, Christian's countless mishaps and how he just got back from a trip to Scotland, where he lost his heart to a girl, never to see her again. Each tale his family tells, revealsanother piece of the man sitting beside me, layers beneath the confident cowboy exterior I'd initially dismissed.
It’s pure chaos and somehow,this—this whole unhinged, chaotic, wildly inappropriate circus—is starting to feel like home.
Chapter 19
Grant
It's during a lull in the festivities, as dusk settles over the ranch, that I find her standing alone, gazing up at the emerging stars.
“Escaping the Taylor madness?” I ask, moving to stand beside her.
She smiles, not looking at me. “Just taking a moment. It's beautiful out here. So many stars.”
“City lights drown them out where you're from?” I ask not taking my eyes off her.
She nods. “You can see some, but nothing like this.” She points upward. “What's that cluster there?”
I look where she's pointing. “That's the Pleiades. Seven Sisters. My grandpa used to say they were watching over the ranch.”
“I like that,” she says softly. “The idea of stars as guardians.”
We stand in companionable silence, shoulders almost touching. The distant sounds of laughter and music from the party fade into background noise.
“Thanks for bringing me tonight,” she says finally. “Your family is... special.”
“That's one word for them,” I chuckle. “Sorry about my dad's comments all night.”
She laughs, the sound warm in the cool evening air. “Don't be. It's refreshing, actually. No pretense, no filters. Just honest, messy humanity.”
“We've got plenty of that to spare,” I agree.
“I didn't have this,” Mia says suddenly, her voice quiet. “Growing up, I mean. After my mom died, it was just me and my dad, and he...” She trails off, looking into the distance. “He was so afraid of losing me too that he stopped living. Stopped letting me live.”
I turn to face her fully now, struck by this rare glimpse into her past. “Is that why you left? Why you're always on the move?”
She meets my eyes, vulnerability written across her face. “Partly. It became suffocating—his fear, his overprotection. Swimming was the only freedom I had.” Her lips curve in a sad smile. “The irony isn't lost on me that I found freedom in the very thing that took my mother.”
“But you didn't just find freedom,” I say, understanding dawning. “You found purpose. Excellence.”
Mia nods. “Swimming gave me goals, discipline, a way to channel all the feelings I couldn't express. Travel writing came later, but it was born from the same need to keep moving, to never get trapped.”
“And now?” I ask, heart pounding with a question I'm not sure I want answered. “Do you still feel that need to escape?”
She looks away, back toward the stars. “I don't know anymore. Everything feels... different here.”
The weight of what she's not saying hangs between us. I want to ask what's different, if I'm part of that difference, but I'm afraid of pushing too hard, too fast.
Instead, I gently take her hand, interlacing our fingers. Her skin is cool against mine, but she doesn't pull away.
“You know what I think?” I say, drawing her attention back to me.
