Page 35 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

Like, blink-and-you-miss-it short.

But with Kian O’Malley behind the wheel? It feels like an eternity.

Holy hell, I’m in his truck.

His actual truck.

Not some dream sequence, not a fever fantasy brought on by working doubles and skipping lunch.

This is real.

And I have no chill.

Because Kian isn’t just good-looking. He’s not some “Oh, he’s cute if you squint” kind of guy.

No, he’s like boy band hot.

Like, late-90s-mega-heartthrob-meets-Outlander-hero hot.

Sure, I’ve seen plenty of attractive men. I don’t live in a hole, thank you very much.

But Kian?

He’s in another category entirely.

I’m a natural blonde. But where my hair is just pale—more faded than gold, like something out of a sun-bleached magazine ad for hair dye—his is bold and bright.

Glittering gold, kissed with dark roots and warm, tawny lowlights, like the sun and the earth decided to get drunk and make art on his head.

And it’s straight.

No curl. No frizz.

Just that perfect, wild kind of messy that only the unfairly hot can pull off.

It’s glossy in a way that shouldn’t be possible unless you’re the spokesperson for a shampoo commercial.

I can literally picture him stepping out of the shower, water dripping from his bare chest—down, Arliss, down—towel slung over his hips, running his big, capable, manly fingers through his hair like it’s no big deal.

Boom. Perfection.

No leave-in conditioner.

No detangling spray.

No homemade mayonnaise hair masks or olive oil treatments.

Meanwhile, I’m in the trenches every week, fighting split ends and humidity like it’s a full-time job.

So yeah. Sour grapes?

You bet your ass.

He clears his throat, and it’s enough to soak my panties.

“So, uh, how was work?”

It’s awkward and endearing and makes me want to roll my eyes and melt at the same time.

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