Page 11 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

But she does.

And I’ll be damned if I let some walking infection lay a hand on her.

I sit at the bar. I wait.

And then—she sees me.

Her baby blues flick to mine, and my Bull lets out a satisfied snort.

I swear I see something flicker behind those eyes.

Recognition?

Interest?

Annoyance?

Hell, I’d take any of the above.

Because she noticed me.

And I’m such a fucking sap, I don’t care why.

I just sit there, staring at her like some love-struck idiot, because fuck, she’s so goddamn pretty.

And if Freddy Love so much as breathes in her direction tonight?

I’m going to show this town exactly why you never piss off a Bull Shifter.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Romeo.”

Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, but I swear to God, it shivers down my spine like a fucking caress.

I should play it cool. Should not sit here grinning like the idiot I am.

But I do.

Because it’s her.

“Evening, Mo Chroí,” I reply instantly, the Gaelic slipping out like a truth I didn’t know I was waiting to say.

Her brows knit together, curious. Intrigued. “Moe Kree?” she repeats, tilting her head in that way that should not be sexy.

But fuck, it is.

Her shoulders move in the smallest shrug, an elegant little lift, and I swear I almost groan.

Are shoulders even supposed to be sexy?

I don’t fucking know.

I’ve never thought about shoulders a day in my goddamn life.

But hers? Perfect.

Just like the rest of her.

The cascade of blonde curls brushing the curve of her throat. Those brilliant blue eyes, framed by inky lashes long enough to make a man believe in sin.

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