Page 44 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

“I hope your mood improves fast, girlie. I’ll be back for round two in a second.”

The cowboy winks as he speaks, his voice slick with promise and menace all tangled together like barbed wire dipped in honey.

And for just a second, more like a heartbeat really, his eyes glow.

Not the kind of glow you get from too much whiskey or too little sleep.

Predatory.

Inhuman.

Wrong.

But then he blinks, and it’s gone.

Like I imagined it.

But I didn’t.

I know I didn’t.

My stomach coils as he saunters off, and I barely notice Bob stepping in beside me, muttering under his breath.

“You need to behave better behind the bar, Arliss. I can’t have this kind of attitude in my establishment. If it keeps up, I’ll have to find someone to replace you.”

Replace me?

I whip my head around, eyes narrowing. “Bob, you know I need this job. But you can’t honestly expect me to flirt with customers like that!”

My voice is low and sharp, laced with revulsion. The words scrape my throat, but I don’t hold them back.

“Now, I didn’t say flirt, Arliss,” he hedges, lifting his hands. “But this is my place. And it’s my good reputation you’re tarnishing when you act a certain way to my customers. So if a man wants to buy you a shot?—”

I bark out a laugh.

Not the kind of laugh that says I’m amused.

The kind that says I’m done.

“What did you just say? You know what, Bob, you serve reheated wings and stale beer, for fuck’s sake. And if you think I’m gonna let some creep paw at me just to protect your dusty-ass ‘good reputation’ the answer is hell no!”

I rip the apron from around my waist and toss it at him with all the dramatic flair of a soap opera heroine who’s just hit her limit.

“That’s it. I quit!”

It’s loud.

It echoes.

It feels damn good.

“Arliss!” Bob sputters, like he didn’t just accuse me of bringing down the bar’s nonexistent Michelin star rating.

“Mo Chroí? Are you alright?”

That voice. It’s him.

Deep.

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