Page 118 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

“You’d think.” Emmet snorts. “She scrubbed the cabin from attic to crawl space this morning. Said she was nesting. I told her we ain't birds. She told me to shut up and move the furniture.”

“You’re still alive, so I’m guessing you listened.”

“You know it.” He grins, but there’s a softness in his eyes that only shows up when he talks about her. “She threatened to stop feeding me and lose all my socks if I didn’t. And I gotta tell you, I believe her. Pregnant women are scary as fuck.”

“What did you say?” Jez shouts from their table.

“I said you’re perfect,” he shouts back, grinning from ear to ear. And I have no doubt he means it. Jez really is perfect for him.

I laugh and shake my head. “Thanks for coming, man. Really.”

And I mean it.

Because this? This is my Crew.

After they leave, the bar quiets just a little, and I let myself lean back and soak it in.

Arliss is behind the counter, all sunshine and sass, moving like she owns the place even though technically it belongs to Bob and his antique register.

But that doesn’t matter.

Because every eye follows her, and not in a creepy way. Well, okay, some in a creepy way. But mostly in a damn, who’s that way.

She has this glow.

This warmth that spreads through a room like wildfire in a dry forest.

And I’ve been watching. Not just her, but how people react to her.

They smile wider.

Laugh louder.

Tip better.

She says she’s nothing special.

She’s so fucking wrong.

Arliss is pure magic.

Of course, some assholes don’t understand boundaries.

Like the string bean motherfucker by the jukebox who’s been ogling her ass like it’s on the specials menu.

I lock eyes with him.

The Bull inside me growls. Loud.

Skinny Fucker freezes, blinks, and pivots on his heel like he suddenly remembered he left the oven on at home.

Good call, bro.

Run.

Humans. Sometimes their self-preservation instincts are blessedly functional.

I’m still eyeing him like he owes me rent when I sense it.

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