Page 7 of Cowboy Dragon's Rose

She’s calling to him.

And for the first time in a long while, he sounds hopeful.

Town is full of folks trying to head down the shore for the weekend, so streets are crowded, and everyone is losing their patience and their minds as the traffic slows to a crawl.

Finally, I arrive.

I’m barely out of the truck when the front door swings open and she steps out.

Dark blonde hair.

Big brown eyes flecked with gold.

Curves that make my Dragon sit up and take notice—fast.

She’s wearing jeans that hug her hips like a second skin, a soft-looking T-shirt with a loaded hot dog printed on the front and the words “I like my wieners loaded” scrawled across her impressive chest.

I fight my smile and pretend like that isn’t the most outrageously funny thing I’ve seen all day.

Goddamn, she is even prettier than I remember.

She’s dragging a massive rolling suitcase behind her that hits every damn porch step on the way down like it’s challenging me to a duel.

And the second I lock eyes with her, the world shifts.

The heat in my chest punches to life.

My Dragon damn near tears through my skin, snarling mine-mine-mine like a lunatic, and I actually stumble a step backward.

No. Fucking. Way.

I might be able to admit right now that yes, my Dragon was right the first time we met. But I’m still not gonna do anything about it.

Her eyes narrow as she takes me in, chest heaving slightly from the effort of hauling that giant bag.

“Oh, um, hi. You’re Zeke,” she says, and squirms with what I assume is discomfort.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

Because this time I know it’s not some fluke. Not some trick created by wedding ambiance and moonlight.

It really is her.

My mate.

My rose.

The Dragon’s Rose on my chest burns against my skin.

It all happens so fast I snarl with the wonderful welcome pain of it.

“You alright there?” Casey asks, her brown eyes wide and curious.

I don’t respond.

She arches a brow and tilts her head, voice dry.

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