Page 11 of Cowboy Dragon's Rose

“Um, so, I don’t know if you remember me from Avery and Dante’s wedding, but I’m Casey Reynolds,” I start, giving him a smile that feels a little too forced.

“I know who you are,” he cuts in, eyes straight ahead, voice low and rough like honey drizzled over gravel.

Okay.

Rude.

“Alright, Mr. Personality. Well, I forgot your name. So?” I lie, with the kind of confidence I do not feel.

Why did I say that?

I know his name. I remember it too well, actually—like it was tattooed on my brain the second he strutted into the room, all tall and broody with that cowboy-meets-underwear-model vibe.

This isn’t even my style. I’m not a liar.

I’m the one who brings labeled Tupperware to potlucks and says sorry when other people bump into me.

But apparently my survival instinct in the face of ridiculous male hotness is sarcasm and deception. Neat.

Maybe it’s because he’s so perfectly irritating.

Like, how dare he look like that and not even have the decency to be mildly awkward about it?

No, he’s just there, existing. Unfazed, unreadable, probably judging me with those glacier-blue eyes.

“Gordon,” he says, pausing like he’s giving me a chance to apologize or swoon or both. “Zeke Gordon.”

Of course. Even his name is hot.

Zeke.

The name sounds like it belongs to a man who chops wood shirtless just for the therapy of it.

Okay, so that bit is done. But wait, I am still not out of the woods.

“And your wife is?”

He flicks his gaze from the road to me, one brow arched in amusement.

“Nonexistent. Is that your way of subtly asking if I’m involved with someone?”

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t subtle,” I mutter, already wondering how fast I can fling myself out of this truck and into oncoming traffic.

He smirks. Actually smirks.

Like the left side of his mouth curves just a little, and my entire brain short-circuits.

“Okay. How about you?” he asks, casual as can be. “Husband? Boyfriend? Stalker I need to worry about?”

My heart does a full-body lurch.

Stalker. Yikes.

“No husband. No boyfriend,” I say quickly, keeping my voice breezy even though my stomach is doing backflips. “Definitely not.”

He nods like it’s no big deal. Like my face didn’t just go white as a sheet. But it’s too close to the truth. Too real.

Michael D’Angelo isn’t just a stalker. He’s a snake in designer suits with dead eyes and dangerous friends.

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