Page 42 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

Tonight’s different.

Because he’s coming.

Kian.

Tall, golden-haired, broody-as-hell Kian O’Malley, with those eyes that see too much and lips that know exactly how to ruin a woman in the best way.

He’s picking me up after my shift.

Just thinking about it now has my damn heartbeat racing like I just ran a mile in heels.

I bite my lip as I pour too fast and create a mountain of foam.

Classic.

With a sigh, I tip the glass and pour it off, trying not to think about how my hands are shaking just imagining him in that cleaner-than-expected truck, waiting at the curb like some smirking, hard-bodied knight in a flannel.

I set the beer in front of Mrs. Reardon with an apologetic smile.

“This one’s on me.”

She beams at me and returns to her table, where her friends are already halfway into their second basket of wings and plotting a rematch next Monday.

I wave, warmth bubbling up in my chest until I turn to the next order.

And feel it all die.

Because the next customer is not a sweet bowling grandma.

He’s one of them.

The rowdy assholes from the other night.

The ones who made my skin crawl and triggered Kian’s unusual defense of me.

Seriously, when I think about how he intervened I swear I get all gooey inside, which is definitely not my normal response to seeing a man’s temper so near to rage.

The cowboy grins when he sees me, all teeth, like he knows just how uncomfortable he makes me.

“There’s my girl,” he says, like I’m some prize steer he tagged for later. “How about you pour me and my boys a round of whiskey shots?”

His voice is oily, too familiar, like we’ve shared more than a transaction.

You wish, fuckface.

I want nothing more than to bleach the words off the air.

I force my spine straight. “So, three shots of whiskey?”

“Four, darlin’. Pour one for yourself too.”

He winks.

Barf.

It’s not the long, frizzy hair. Or the way he leans too far over the bar. It’s the energy. It is way off.

Wrong.

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