Page 76 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
“Quinn, is everything all right? Do you need something?”
He’s been at my beck and call all week, making sure that I’m okay as I’ve been pushing myself hard to prepare for the fundraiser.
I’ve been too scared to ask him until now. “Have you heard from Beck? Where is he?”
“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, concern threading his tone. “I have no idea where he is, and no one else knows where he disappeared to.”
My chest sinks. Missing. Gone. And I have no idea where he might be. Panic bubbles up, threatening to spill over. My mind races with all the possibilities—what if he’s hurt? What if he’s blaming himself too much to come back? What if this distance has made him give up on us entirely?
I press my hand to my forehead, trying to steady my breathing. The fundraiser, my plans, the hundred little things I’d been obsessing over—it all feels meaningless now. Nothing matters more than finding him, telling him how I feel, and hoping he can forgive me.
“I need to find him, Landon,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I can’t wait. I have to fix this.”
Landon doesn’t argue, just hums in understanding. He knows better than to try stopping me.
I hang up and grip my phone tighter, a mix of fear and determination coursing through me. Beck is out there somewhere. And I’m going to find him.
I pace the room, phone clutched in my hands, rehearsing words over and over in my head. My voice falters even in my own mind. How do I tell him everything I feel without sounding desperate? How do I make him understand that I love him, that I need him, that I’m willing to face everything with him by my side?
I take a deep breath, letting my fear settle like a stone in my stomach, and stop pacing. There’s no perfect way to say this. There’s only the truth. And the truth is that I love him, I want him, and I can’t keep waiting.
With trembling fingers, I press his number. The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times. My heart hammers with every unanswered ring, and then I get his voicemail.
“Beck, it’s me,” I begin, my voice catching. I swallow hard and keep going. “I—I just need you to know how much I love you. I’ve been scared, and I let that fear make me say things I shouldn’t have, things that hurt you, and I’m so sorry. I never should have pushed you away.”
I pause, biting my lip, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. “I want you back. I want us. I want to face this, everything, with you. I’m ready to adapt, to adjust, to grow, with you by my side. Ihope you can forgive me, and I hope you come back. Please come back. I miss you.”
I hang up before I can second-guess myself, letting the phone rest in my hands as if it were a lifeline. My chest heaves, relief and terror swirling together. I’ve said it. I’ve laid my heart bare, and now I have no choice but to wait.
For him. For his forgiveness. For his return.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, phone still clutched in my hands, staring at the wall as if it could somehow tell me he’ll come back. Relief courses through me, but it’s tangled with dread—the gnawing, anxious worry that maybe I’ve said too much, or too little, or that it won’t matter at all.
I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes, whispering a quiet hope into the empty room. Please... let him come back. Please let him forgive me. Please let us fix this.
The world outside the window continues its steady, indifferent rhythm—the birds flit across the garden, the morning sun glints off the rooftops—but I’m suspended in this moment, held fast by longing and fear. For the first time in days, I allow myself to hope. Hope that love can heal the hurt I caused. Hope that Beck will return. Hope that together, we can face whatever comes next.
And even though I don’t know where he is, I make a silent promise: I’ll be ready for him when he comes back.
I lift my head when I hear voices in the hall. It’s my parents. My chest tightens, and I freeze. I’m not in the right frame of mind to see them, especially today, even though I have no choice but to see them at the fundraiser later.
Father storms in first, his face red, his usual authoritative tone cutting through the quiet. “Quinn, what the hell is going on with you? You’re supposed to be up and about by now, handling things for this evening, but you’re here moping about that boy. What is—“
I bite my lip, but before he can finish, Mom follows, her expression softer, calmer, but her eyes sharp as ever. She steps between us, placing a firm hand on his chest.
“Enough,” she says quietly but firmly. “A father may be stubborn, but a mother will always see the heart. Look at her, Conrad—their love is real. You can yell and scold her all you want, but it doesn’t change that.”
I glance at her, tears welling, as she turns to me and gives me a reassuring squeeze. “What is meant to be yours will always come back to you. If he is meant to be yours, he will find his way back to you. And if not, you have us to support you, right, honey?” she asks, turning to my father with a pointed look.
“Of course, dear,” Father grumbles, but the tension in his shoulders softens slightly under Mom’s gaze.
She smacks his arm lightly—a warning and a gesture of love at once.
“Thank you, you guys,” I murmur, my heart feeling lighter than it has in days.
For the first time, I feel like maybe, just maybe, everything could work out. Beck will come back, and I have my family behind me.
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