Page 129 of 11 Cowboys

They’re here.

Why are they here?

Maybe to threaten to sue the magazine? They’d agreed to be featured, so it’d be a struggle.

But their expressions aren’t murderous; they’re open and entreating. My hands shake at my sides, and tears burn at my throat, but then I remember the hashtag.

They can’t have seen it yet, can they? None of them had social media, and once they do, they’ll know I’m worthless, and they’ll turn right back around.

48

CONWAY

I spot her through the glass before we’re even halfway across the floor, wearing a tight black dress, red heels, and gold hoops that catch the light as she turns her head. Her hair’s twisted up in some kind of sleek, unforgiving knot, and her eyes lined dark and sharp like she’s on her way to war.

It’s Grace. But not our Grace.

Not ranch Grace, with dirt on her boots and sunshine in her smile. This version of her is all hard angles, cool detachment, and stark armor like she’s carved from marble and judgment. With her spine rod-straight and chin high, she looks like she owns the place.

But even from across the room, her trembling hand is noticeable. And her eyes. Those big, soulful eyes are wide with something she’s trying hard to hide. It’s raw, like fear or hurt, as though she’s holding herself together with little more than willpower and war paint, and my stomach drops.

Because I did that. I broke her.

I should’ve let her explain. I should’ve cooled off beforepushing her out. I know myself. I burn hot and fast and say things I don’t mean. By the time I come back to center, the damage is already done.

Now I’m standing in the middle of a glass palace in a button-down I ironed three times, with my best boots still covered in dust, no matter how hard I tried to clean them. Brody’s at my side, stiff as stone, while Dylan stands behind us, jaw tight and shoulders squared like we’re walking into a fight.

Maybe we are.

We look like the setup for a joke. Cowboys in the City. We don’t fit here, and we damn well know it.

What’s Grace gonna think, seeing us like this? That we’ve come to drag her back to the Stone Age? That we can’t let her go be the boss of her own damn world?

Is she gonna be embarrassed? Furious?

I can’t tell. All I want is for her to look at me the way she used to, like I was steady and solid. Someone she could lean on. Someone she could love.

But when her gaze finally snaps to mine, it hits like a slap; cold, cutting, and sharp enough to bleed.

She doesn’t speak or smile when she turns, smooth as ever, and walks toward her office. She doesn’t wave us in or slow down when she pushes the door open and walks inside, leaving it hanging open behind her.

That’s it. That’s our welcome.

I glance at Brody, then Dylan, and follow her in.

Jesus, she looks so fucking sexy; I don’t know what to do with myself. Sexy, but empty. So different from the woman she had become, surrounded by fresh air, loving cowboys, and giggling children.

The office is glass on all sides. Sleek, minimal, and cold, it suits this high-gloss, untouchable version of her. This is where she existed before she came to us, working at this long, neat desk, sitting in this plush leather chair, with the city skyline stretching out before her.

I swallow hard again, growing more and more convincedthat this was a stupid idea. We don’t fit, and we’re gonna make damned fools of ourselves.

She shuts the door behind us with a soft click.

“Why are you here?”

Her question isn’t angry as such, but it’s not warm, either. She sounds tired, like she’s worn down to the marrow of her bones. I know how she feels. I haven’t had more than a few hours of sleep since she left.

Since you made her leave, my conscience reminds me.