Page 7 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

And my fated mate just might be the only thing that can save me.

Chapter One-Arliss

Ugh. Cowboys. Again.

Wannabe fucking cowboys at that.

I roll my eyes and deliberately turn my back on the group of out-of-towners strutting through the door like they own the place, their denim too crisp, their boots too clean.

Not a scuff, not a speck of dust. Just that store-bought, mass-produced Western cosplay that somehow makes my skin crawl.

Why do grown-ass men always wanna dress up like goddamn cowboys?

I mutter it under my breath, but Rita, my coworker, hears me anyway.

“I don’t know, honey, but it pays the rent,” she snorts, expertly balancing a tray of beers as she saunters toward the table of loud-mouthed city boys.

They’re already hootin’ and hollerin’, like this is some honky-tonk straight out of a movie, instead of a dimly lit, no-frills bar in the middle of Dry Creek, New Jersey.

Bob’s Bar.

It’s old-fashioned and small, the kind of place that smells like stale beer and wood polish, with a stage that only sees live music on Fridays, and a dusty jukebox in the corner that barely works.

The lights are too dim. The tables and chairs all bear their share of stains and scars.

And the kitchen? Well. Calling it a kitchen is generous.

Burgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, fries—whatever the fry cook can throw together between cigarette breaks.

If you’re lucky, maybe a toaster-oven pizza.

But it’s the only place in town where you can grab a beer after work, and that means Bob’s Bar stays in business.

And me? I stay here because I need the money.

I grab a rag from behind the bar, wiping down the battered oak countertop before the next round of customers starts demanding drinks.

I hate this job.

But hate doesn’t change the fact that rent’s due, and bills don’t pay themselves. So I keep my mouth shut, keep my head down, and keep working.

Simple.

Except my gaze keeps drifting. It keeps flicking toward the front door, expecting to see someone I shouldn’t be waiting for.

I bite my lip, pretending I’m not doing exactly that. Pretending I’m not watching the clock tick past eleven on a Saturday night.

And he’s not here.

I exhale sharply, turning away from the door like it doesn’t matter.

Like he doesn’t matter.

But it’s no use lying to myself.

Because I’m thinking about him.

Kian O’Malley.

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