Page 2 of Haunted Spurs

Usually, that shuts conversations down before they even start—somewhere between visible discomfort and a full sprint for the door. Exactly how I like it. I’ve got zero intention of dipping back into the dating pool. My idiot ex already gave me a lifetime supply of bullshit, nuking my tolerance for romantic drama. Now I’m focused on my career. My ideal men exist only on paper, and they do exactly what I tell them to.

Click. The pen pops back out.

“Oh, yeah? Sounds interesting.”

My pen stalls. Why doesn’t he sound intimidated? He sounds… irritatingly genuine. Like he’s actually curious.

I exhale slowly, jaw tightening. “Listen, cowboy…”

“Hey, I’m not exactly a cowboy…” The yellow-and-black flannel sleeve slides onto the bar, closing the distance. He lifts his pint and taps it against mine. His Rustler’s Brew clinks sharply against my Smithwick’s.

“More like a new cowboy. I’ve always lived out in the country, but I finally got a ranch of my own. I decided to buy it the second I moved here—it’s always been kind of my—”

Christ. He’s still talking.

A tic starts at the base of my neck. A vein above my eyebrow pulses, keeping time with the mechanical bull behind us. It’s going to pop.

I pick up my beer and take a long sip.

Who am I to turn down a free drink?

After all, it’s the best beer I’ve ever had.

“Do you always talk this fucking much?” I snap, cutting him off.

That vein is about three seconds from popping and turning me into a murderer.

“Is it a writer thing to be so… grumpy?” His tone is calm, unoffended, almost amused. “I have a friend who—”

That’s it.

“Listen, new cowboy—whatever the hell that means…” I spin on my stool, ready to burn him alive with a look.

But… wow.

Just… wow.

The words die before they even make it out.

Beneath the slightly tipped brim of a black Stetson, two clear blue eyes meet mine, bright with amusement. He’s the opposite of the gothic darkness I was just buried in, apart from his dark hair. Square jaw, dark stubble, that rough, effortless kind of rugged. His flannel shirt strains over broad shoulders and a solid chest, the collar snug against a strong neck. He’s offensively handsome, all sharp lines and bright, magnetic energy.

Can we rewind the tape?

I’m not looking for a relationship. That’s off the table. But… who says I can’t enjoy this absolute specimen of a man for one night?

Maybe I could take the night off. No dark lords and crypts tonight. Just muscles and flannel.

My gaze slides back up, locking with his.

“What did you say your name was?”

A slow, knowing smile curves his lips. His fingers drift to his shirt collar, and with a shameless ease, he undoes the top button, revealing a flash of golden skin and the sharp line of a collarbone.

Christ.

Do not roll my eyes.

Do not ro—