Page 125 of 11 Cowboys

“I did this,” I say. “It’s all my fault.”

“NO.” Allie practically yells the word. “There is nothing wrong with wanting sex, Grace. Or having it. If you’re happy, that’s it. End of conversation. And none of those assholes deserved even a look in your direction… but that’s beside the point.”

“I wasn’t happy,” I admit. “And it was never… good.”

I’m ashamed to admit it. I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t.

Her grip tightens. “Seriously? Fuck. So they’re bragging about the bad sex they gave you. That’s their flex? They should hang their heads in shame.”

This time, I choke out a laugh.

“What about the cowboys?” she asks. “Please tell me they weren’t all hat and no saddle, or Jesus, I’m going to lasso all those jackasses together and make them sit through female anatomy classes.”

I nod, cheeks flushing. “They were good,” I admit, the memory of heat and connection rolling over me like standing in front of an open oven.

“Good with your body or your heart?”

I glance at the painting McCartney gave me. The one I swore I wouldn’t look at. It’s propped against the bookcase,angled enough to catch the light. Maybe I should have left it behind, but it’s the only memento I have of the happiest time in my life.

Allie follows my gaze. “What’s that?”

I stand, retrieve it, and hand it over. It’s easier than speaking when I have a golf ball wedged against my larynx.

She studies it for a long time. When she finally looks up, her eyes are full of tears. “This is beautiful, Grace.”

“It is.”

“I feel it,” she whispers. “The love.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t real,” I say. “I was the wrong woman at the right time.”

She traces her finger along the edge of the frame thoughtfully. “You know, sometimes it’s so hard to accept good when it comes along. We get used to molding ourselves into what we think we need to be, to fit in with our family’s and friends’ expectations, the requirements of our job, or the needs of our partners. But when we squash ourselves to be what other people need, we forget ourselves.” She places the painting on the windowsill and takes my hand. “I see what you do, Grace. I see you searching for what you need in all the wrong places, and when you don’t get it, you use those negative feelings to validate your self-belief. I should have talked to you about it sooner, but I didn’t want to damage our friendship or hurt your feelings. I thought you’d come to your senses when the right man came along. I know I joked about you starting a cowboy harem, but honestly, I was hoping they’d recognize what a loving person you are, and you’d finally see it, too.”

I shake my head. “I’m not what they need.”

“Think about it,” she says. “You’re the last person who should’ve worked in their world, and they wanted you anyway.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “If it were love, they would have listened to my explanations about the article. And anyway…” I brush my hands over my jeans like I mean business. “Now I’m a slut-meme, all of this is irrelevant. Who’s going to want me for anything more than sex after this?”

Allie doesn’t flinch. “Sweetie, my ass was plastered all over the tabloids for weeks, and I’ve got ten very enthusiastic boyfriends who are madly in love with me. If they’re your people—really your people—none of this will scare them off.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Allie rises. “That’s Theron. He drove me. I told him fifteen minutes, but I’m guessing he’s doing the pee dance.”

I blink, startled. “Wait. Theron? You brought Theron?”

Allie shrugs like it’s nothing. “He insisted. Said no one should have to cry alone.”

She heads for the door, and I try to pull myself together, wiping at my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, but it’s no use. I’m blotchy and tired and emotionally wrung out, and it shows. I think about standing, about pretending to be composed for one-tenth of Allie’s sexy harem, who’s about to walk into my apartment, but I don’t have the energy.

Theron walks in, tall and broad-shouldered with that calm, grounded energy that always feels like leaning against a brick wall you trust not to collapse. His dark hair is wind-tousled, his jaw shadowed, and he looks exactly like a man women would Photoshop into a cowboy meme, except he’s real, and he’s here for me.

He glances around the apartment, then at me, and offers a small, polite nod.

“Grace,” he says, voice warm but a little clipped. “Good to see you. Is it okay if I use your bathroom real quick?”

“Of course. It’s down there on the left.”

He heads down the hallway like a man on a mission.