Page 127 of 11 Cowboys

“A wreckage,” he says, “can be rebuilt. Stronger. If you use the right materials.”

His eyes hold mine, and they’re steady and unapologetic.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my voice barely audible.

Theron leans in, voice calm. “You don’t have to know. But you have to keep going.”

“Keeping going seems like the hardest thing of all,” I admit.

Allie and Theron exchange a worried glance that’s more transparent than they mean it to be.

“Allie’s going to stay here tonight,” Theron says so firmly that there’s no way I can object.

“You don’t need to stay,” I say, half-heartedly.

“I really do.” She gives me a firm look. “I brought snacks. My laptop. If you need to cry or rage or scream at men in meme form, I’m here.”

“She’s the best,” Theron says, reaching out to touch her knee. “Even if she talks too much and steals the covers.”

Allie flips him off with a grin.

“I’m feeling better,” I tell them. “I think the weird combination of brandy and chamomile is mellowing out my nerves.”

“Tsipouro would have worked better,” Theron says as Allie rolls her eyes.

“I’m telling you that stuff is for removing stains or igniting barbeques.”

He scowls. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that. EVER. Stay here. I’ll get your bag.”

When Theron disappears, I look back at McCartney’s painting as it catches the light, and I can’t look away.

The brushstrokes. The care. The space they made for me.

This life, or that life.

Right now, neither feels like it’s mine.

47

GRACE

I show up to work two hours earlier than anyone expects, clutching a coffee I bought mostly for armor. The city air is sharp and wet, and I can still taste the burn of brandy and heartbreak from the night before. But I’m here.

The office is cold. My heels echo across the tile as I walk through the space like it’s foreign territory. Maybe it is now. Maybe I’ve already shed the skin that used to fit here, replacing it with one more comfortable in dust and heat.

My assistant does a double-take when I step off the elevator. He’s halfway through a yogurt and nearly drops his spoon. “Grace! I didn’t—I mean, I thought you were taking some time—”

“Change of plans,” I say smoothly. “Can you get Rianna in my office? Now.”

He stares wide-eyed, then bolts. I don’t wait for Rianna to follow. I go straight to my glass-walled, airless office.

I don’t sit. I stand behind my desk, looking at the fake plastic plants in the corner, arms folded, waiting.

It takes ninety seconds before Rianna enters, perfectlypolished and already defensive.

“I assume this is about the article—”

“You assume right,” I cut in, voice flat. “Sit.”