Page 43 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

Predatory.

Still, I tell myself I’m overthinking.

Plenty of people flirt with bartenders. It’s part of the gig.

So I nod, keep my eyes down, and pour the shots.

I don’t make eye contact. I just reach for the bill he drops on the bar, but then his hand is on my wrist.

Fast.

Hard.

Possessive.

And completely unfuckinginvited.

“Ouch!” I gasp, eyes going wide.

He leans in, all teeth and menace. “I said pour four. You deaf or something?”

“Let go of me.”

My voice is sharp now. Cold. And loud enough that heads start to turn.

I flick my gaze to Bob, who thank God is here tonight.

He catches my silent plea and lumbers over, frowning.

“Can I help you?”

The cowboy doesn’t even flinch.

He just drops my wrist like he wasn’t squeezing it a second ago and turns to Bob with a greasy smile.

“No sir, just here to drink in your fine establishment. Enjoying the view.”

He leers at me like I’m the Monday night special.

Hot, juicy, and served on a plate.

Gross.

Bob turns to me with his best I’m too old for this shit look.

“Arliss, what did I tell you about being friendly to the customers?”

Oh, hell no.

“Whatever it was,” I snap, “I’m damn well not flirting or drinking with guys like him.”

Because I know the difference between a harmless flirtation and being treated like meat.

And if this jerk doesn't walk away soon, then God help this asshole.

Because I am not the one.

And this cowboy’s about two seconds away from being fertilizer.

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