Page 143 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

I groan, tug at my tie for the tenth time, and glower at the perfectly manicured fairy lights twinkling overhead like they’re mocking me personally.

I mean, seriously. Who keeps letting these people get married?

The barn’s been dressed up like a Pinterest board threw up glitter and fresh flowers all over the damn place. There’s linen-covered tables, candles in mason jars, and that sickening scent of hope.

Ugh. Hope. Disgusting.

Everywhere I turn, someone’s holding hands, kissing, or whispering sweet nothings that make my molars itch. And don’t even get me started on the music—some kind of slow, swoony acoustic thing that makes you wanna sigh and adopt a rescue puppy.

I swear, if this keeps up, I’m gonna have to get inoculated against soft feelings.

Worse? Everyone’s pregnant or ovulating on a synchronized cycle. I can smell it. It’s like a goddamn fertility cult around here.

I’m half-convinced the moon itself is in on it.

I’ve even started researching fireproof sound insulation for my cabin so I can maybe get a night’s rest without hearing Max and Penny, or Kian and Arliss, go at it like hormonally unhinged Werebunnies.

And don’t even mention Dante and Avery. The last time their Bear and Human love fest hit my ears, I damn near barfed in my own flame.

So yeah. I’m not exactly in the mood.

Which is probably why, when someone clears their throat right next to me, I assume it’s another lovesick fool trying to drag me into some couples' conga line.

But then I look up.

And fuck me if the universe doesn’t slam a wrecking ball right through my chest.

Because she’s standing there. Right in front of me.

Glossy hair pulled into a loose updo, tiny curls kissing her cheeks. Full lips painted in a shade that’s somewhere between rose and war paint. A dress that shimmers when she moves, hugging her curves like it’s lucky to be clinging to her.

But none of that hits me harder than her eyes.

Eyes like firelight in Autumn.

Not quite brown. Not quite gold.

Just warm and wild and knowing.

And she’s holding out her hand. To me.

“Pardon me,” she says with a voice that sounds like the last sip of whiskey at the end of a long day. “Do you dance?”

At first, I think she’s joking.

I mean, me? Dance?

I breathe fire and hoard sarcasm like treasure. Dancing is not part of my hoard.

But then she smiles.

Just a small, sweet lift of her lips, but it’s enough to knock something loose in my ribcage. Something ancient and soft and terrifying.

My hand lifts before I can stop it.

I take hers.

And the moment our skin touches, my knees buckle.

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