That’s half the damn fun.
Lily and Annie return with drinks in hand, oblivious to our exchange.
I take one last look back at her. She’s standing there, flushed and frozen, mouth slightly open, eyes wide like I just flipped her entire system.
Damn, stunned looks good on her.
I finally hear her yell after me “The more you talk, the hotter I get…unfortunately, it’s mostly from rage.”
I chuckle as I slide into the booth, Christian’s grinning like the devil. “Everything alright there, loverboy?”
“Just settin’ expectations,” I say, lifting my beer again.
Mason raises his glass. “To territorial cowboys and women who pretend they’re not into it.”
I clink his bottle. “Damn right.”
But even as the noise rises around us—boots stomping, glasses clinking, someone whooping on the bull—my gaze keeps flicking back to Mia.
And I know one thing for damn sure:
This little storm we’re building?
It’s about to get a whole lot louder.
Chapter 22
Mia
My skull is made of concrete.
Or at least, that’s how it feels when I pry one eye open to the hazy gray light bleeding through the curtains. My mouth tastes like tequila and a lifetime of bad decisions. My throat is dry. My head pulses with every heartbeat like my brain’s decided to throw its own rodeo.
I groan, roll over, and regret every drink I let Annie and Lily talk me into last night at The Whiskey Barrel.
There’s a single moment where I consider going back to sleep—but then I remember what day it is.
And sleep isn’t an option anymore.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the lurch in my stomach. My body protests every movement, but I force it into motion, pulling on the swimsuit I left draped over the chair. The house is still silent.
Grant must be sleeping, or maybe out with his brothers already. I don’t let myself wonder if he thought about me last night after what he whispered in my ear. I can’t. Not today.
I don’t bother with shoes.
Stepping out into the stillness, barefoot, I feel the cool dew dampening my skin. The porch creaks beneath my weight, and I follow the trail Grant cleared days ago—his silent gift to me, though neither of us ever really said that out loud.
The river awaits, shrouded in a thin veil of mist that drifts low like ghostly fingers over the surface. It’s different in the morning. Still. Sacred. A place untouched by the noise of the world.
And today of all days, I need that silence.
The water welcomes me like an old friend as I slide beneath its surface. I need this—the weightlessness, the escape.
Eleven years ago today, my mother took her last breath. Now, I seek life in the same element that claimed hers.
I've been coming here every day since Grant cleared the path, but never this early. Never when the world is still sleeping.
I push off from the bank and glide through the cool water, my strokes measured and precise. Olympic training demands discipline, but this morning isn't only about medal counts or qualifying times. It's about connection—to her, to myself, to memories that grow more distant with each passing year.
