Page 8 of Cowboy Dragon's Rose

“Okay, strong silent type. That’s cute. But if you plan on brooding the whole drive, can you at least help me get this thing in the truck?”

I blink.

“That’s your suitcase?” I ask.

“No, it’s my mobile panic room. Yes, it’s my suitcase.”

She hauls it toward me and practically dares me not to help.

I grunt, grabbing the handle and lifting it like it weighs nothing—because it doesn’t weigh a goddamn thing.

I’m a Dragon Shifter, not a noodle-armed farm boy.

She watches me toss it into the truck bed and makes a little hmm noise.

“Nice. You didn’t even throw out your back. Promising.”

I stare at her.

“You always this mouthy?”

Her lips curve.

“Only when I’m nervous. Or annoyed. Or breathing.”

I make the mistake of looking too long—at the way her lips tug into that crooked little smile, at the way the sun hits her hair and turns it golden, at the tiny silver scar on her chin that I suddenly need to know the story behind.

“You done staring?” she asks sweetly.

“No.”

Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens, then closes again. For one second, she’s caught off guard.

Yay me. I win.

Until she tosses her tote bag into the cab and climbs in like she owns the truck.

“Let’s go, cowboy. If I’m gonna get murdered, I’d rather it be before lunchtime.”

I climb in beside her, heart thundering like hooves on dry earth. I should say something smooth.

Something cool.

Instead, I blurt out, “You smell good.”

She turns, blinking. “Okay. Weird opener, but thanks.”

“I didn’t mean—” I drag a hand down my face, growling under my breath.

My Dragon is practically purring, rubbing up against my ribs like a damn cat.

She’s chatting like we never met, and I wonder for a second if she doesn’t remember me.

It stings. And I can feel my lips pull down in a frown.

“Didn’t mean what?” she prompts.

“Forget it.”

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