Page 28 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

And just for a split second, a stupid, fleeting, completely unhelpful second, I wonder if he would think so too.

No.

No. Nope.

DO NOT GO THERE.

But of course, I go there.

Because no matter how many times I tell myself not to think about Kian O’Malley, that’s exactly where my traitorous mind goes.

Last night.

God, what was that?

Yeah, the drunk cowboy was being a Class A jackass, but I could’ve handled it. I’ve dealt with worse.

Still.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t melt just a little when Kian stepped in like some brawny, dark-eyed avenger and smashed that moron’s face into the bar top.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t about me. Maybe he’s just the old-fashioned type who doesn’t like men mouthing off.

But given his reputation as a total player, I somehow doubt chivalry was what got his blood boiling.

Not that it matters.

He didn’t ask me out again.

Didn’t flirt.

Didn’t linger.

He just paid his tab—overpaid it, actually, which was weird—and then he left.

Quiet.

Controlled.

Like the whole thing hadn’t even rattled him.

Which it totally had.

At least, I think it did.

Maybe?

Doesn’t matter.

I grab my purse and keys before I start spiraling again, lean over to press a kiss to Gramps’ cheek.

He pats my hand, squeezes it gently. “Drive safe, darling.”

“Always,” I say with a smile, heading out the door.

I slide into the front seat of Cleo, my ancient but loyal little Toyota, and start her up with a sputter and a growl that sounds vaguely like someone waking from a nap they didn’t want to take.

The bar’s not far.

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