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U gh. Cowboys. Again .

Wannabe fucking cowboys at that.

I roll my eyes and deliberately turn my back on the group of out-of-towners strutting through the door like they own the place, their denim too crisp, their boots too clean.

Not a scuff, not a speck of dust. Just that store-bought, mass-produced Western cosplay that somehow makes my skin crawl.

Why do grown-ass men always wanna dress up like goddamn cowboys?

I mutter it under my breath, but Rita, my coworker, hears me anyway.

“I don’t know, honey, but it pays the rent,” she snorts, expertly balancing a tray of beers as she saunters toward the table of loud-mouthed city boys.

They’re already hootin’ and hollerin’, like this is some honky-tonk straight out of a movie, instead of a dimly lit, no-frills bar in the middle of Dry Creek, New Jersey.

Bob’s Bar.

It’s old-fashioned and small, the kind of place that smells like stale beer and wood polish, with a stage that only sees live music on Fridays, and a dusty jukebox in the corner that barely works.

The lights are too dim. The tables and chairs all bear their share of stains and scars.

And the kitchen? Well. Calling it a kitchen is generous.

Burgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, fries—whatever the fry cook can throw together between cigarette breaks.

If you’re lucky, maybe a toaster-oven pizza.

But it’s the only place in town where you can grab a beer after work, and that means Bob’s Bar stays in business.

And me? I stay here because I need the money.

I grab a rag from behind the bar, wiping down the battered oak countertop before the next round of customers starts demanding drinks.

I hate this job.

But hate doesn’t change the fact that rent’s due, and bills don’t pay themselves. So I keep my mouth shut, keep my head down, and keep working.

Simple.

Except my gaze keeps drifting. It keeps flicking toward the front door, expecting to see someone I shouldn’t be waiting for.

I bite my lip, pretending I’m not doing exactly that. Pretending I’m not watching the clock tick past eleven on a Saturday night.

And he’s not here.

I exhale sharply, turning away from the door like it doesn’t matter.

Like he doesn’t matter.

But it’s no use lying to myself.

Because I’m thinking about him.

Kian O’Malley.

The cowboy I’d dubbed Romeo the night he crashed into me— half-dressed, smelling of sweat and leather and something darker, something wilder —right there behind the chutes at the Cow Country Rodeo last month.

I hadn’t meant to see him.

Hadn’t meant to feel that pull.

But I had.

And now, I seem to be looking for him everywhere.

He’s been here before, always alone, always quiet.

He stays for a drink or two, leans against the bar with that easy, careless confidence, then disappears before midnight— usually with someone eager to go home with him.

Lots of buckle bunnies in this town. All skinny and skilled.

Who knew?

I pretend I don’t care.

I pretend it doesn’t bother me, the way women circle him like he’s some prize stallion up for auction, whispering, giggling, eyeing that damn belt buckle like it’s a ticket to something worth having.

I pretend I don’t want him.

Because I do.

But I also know better.

Cowboys like him? They don’t stay.

And women like me? Ultra curvy with extra baggage—and I don’t just mean my wide hips and bubble butt.

We don’t get fairytales.

Not here. Not in Dry Creek, New Jersey, where I ended up after high school, trying to escape a past that still clings to me like the ghost of a storm.

I’d had no idea cowboy culture was even a thing in New Jersey.

But now I do.

And I can’t stop thinking about the one cowboy who hasn’t even looked my way since that day we ran into one another.

But men always leave, at least, that’s my experience.

After my father left, Mom packed up what little we had and brought us here. To a town I didn’t know, to a house I’d never set foot in, to a man I never even knew existed.

Gramps.

Turns out, my mother had a father. And not just any father, a stubborn, salt-of-the-earth, no-nonsense kind of man who had once been everything to her.

Until they had a falling out that sent her running, barely more than a kid herself, looking for something— someone —to hold on to.

She found my dad.

She got pregnant, they got married, and for a little while, he stayed.

Until one day, we just weren’t enough.

Then he was gone.

No note. No goodbye. Just an empty space where he used to be.

So we came here.

And for a little while, I thought maybe that meant we’d be okay. That maybe this time, we wouldn’t be left behind again.

Then Mom got sick.

Ovarian cancer.

Fast. Ruthless.

Like it had been lying in wait for her, ready to strike the second she thought she could rest.

And just like that, it was me and the old man.

God, I love my Gramps.

He is the best man I’ve ever known. The kind of man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and still has a story to tell at the end of the day.

He taught me how to cook, how to sew, how to fix the little things most people would rather throw away.

And his stories.

Hell, I could listen to him talk for hours, weaving together pieces of the past like they still mattered. Like they still lived somewhere, tucked in the spaces between here and what came before.

He collects social security, but it’s not enough.

Not with the hospital bills still haunting us, not with the cost of his own medicine eating through what little we have left at the end of each month.

So I work.

I work, and I scrape, and I survive.

I pick up extra shifts whenever I can, doing everything I can to make sure Gramps doesn’t see how tight things have gotten.

And the last thing I need taking up any space in my already overworked brain?

A too-good-looking-for-anyone’s-good Romeo.

Kian O’Malley.

A cowboy with a crooked grin, easy charm, and the kind of presence that makes the air feel too thick, too charged, too damn dangerous.

A player, plain and simple.

And I know better than to mess around with that.

I have too much on my plate. Too much to lose.

And Kian O’Malley?

He’s the kind of trouble I can’t afford.

Which is exactly why I should’ve left early. Should have gone the second he came strolling in a few minutes after one AM.

I am so screwed.