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It isn’t pretty. Fixing her car will cost more than the thing is worth. With all the parts and labor, you’re looking at 5K. Only reason it’s still running is stubbornness and prayer. Let me know if you want me to tow it out to the junkyard or try for a hail Mary.
I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. The old me would handle it. Tell Rick to junk the car and order Tinsley a brand-new one.
But I know she’d hate that.
I force a steady breath. This isn’t about me flexing my wallet. Tinsley wants control. She wants to make her own decisions.
So, I tap out a reply to Rick
Me
Don’t do anything yet. I’ll get back to you.
It goes against all my instincts, but I know it’s the right way to handle this.
I grab my phone and dial her number before I have a chance to second-guess myself. It rings once, twice. She answers by the third ring, voice low and professional. “Hello, Hudson.”
My heart nearly pounds out of my chest when she finally uses my name. Her smoky voice causes my cock to twitch. Jesus. I’m in deep.
“Hey, Tinsley. I got an update on your car.” I force my tone casual, but my fingers are gripping the phone hard enough to snap it in half. “Mechanic says it’s bad. The estimate was around five thousand, which is more than it’s worth. Didn’t want to make the call for you.”
Silence. Not the normal, polite kind. I can practically hear her thinking. That stubborn brain weighing every angle, looking for an escape route. It makes my blood heat.
She finally breathes out, her voice a little shaky, “I need to think about how to handle this.”
I bite back the urge to fix this for her. “Take your time.” My jaw clenches so tight I might crack a molar. “The garage will hold on to it as long as you want. No pressure.”
Another long pause, then she mutters, “Thank you.”
I clear my throat. “Do you need a lift to work tomorrow, or are you gonna try hitchhiking down Main?”
Her laugh is little more than a huff. “Thanks for offering, but I don’t need a ride. I’ll handle it.”
I want to argue. I want to insist. But I bite back the urge, knowing I have to play my cards right if I want to win her heart. “Alright, Tinsley. Let me know what you decide.”
“Will do,” she tells me and hangs up. Fucking hell. Winning her heart is going to give me a goddamn heart attack.
CHAPTER SIX
TINSLEY
The air inside The Golden Mug usually smells like a mix of roasted espresso and the faint, sweet scent of cinnamon rolls that have been cooling on the back counter. It’s a place where I can sit with a lukewarm latte and pretend that my life in Silver Spoon Falls is exactly as simple as I want it to be. But this morning, the atmosphere has shifted. I’m still reeling from my conversation with Hudson last night. First, he didn’t insist on paying for my car repairs. Then he actually let me refuse his ride to work.
I’m kinda starting to feel like I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone. Then I glance over to the back corner and see Hudson Carrington is sitting at my usual table. The one with the perfect view of the street, the one I occupy every morning. He isn't wearing the tailored suit that makes him look like he just stepped off a magazine page. Instead, he's in a dark denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that look like they were carved out of Texas oak. His Stetson is resting on the table next to a steaming mug, and he’s reading a book. Huh? I must’ve woken up in some alternate universe. That’s the only explanation for this.
I stop by the front counter and order my usual drink. Once Sarah hands it over to me, I stand by the counter, my fingers tightening around the cardboard while I decide how to handle this situation. My first instinct is to turn around and walk out, to preserve the hard-won perimeter of my independence. But there is something about the way he isn't looking for me, the way his jaw is set in concentration rather than a smirk, that forces me to walk over to the table.
"You stole my table," I say, stopping a few feet from him. I don't mean for it to sound like a challenge, but with Hudson, everything feels like a negotiation.
He looks up, and for the first time since we met, the intensity in his hazel eyes isn't predatory. It's quiet. He doesn't stand up or try to charm me with his arrogant grin. He just gestures to the empty chair across from him. "It's actually first come, first served. But I'm willing to share with you."
I look at the chair, then back at him. "Where did all your grand gestures go?"
"I thought I'd try something radical," he says, his voice low and smooth. "I thought I'd just have a cup of coffee and maybe spend a little time with you."
I sit. I shouldn't, but the denial loop in my brain is malfunctioning. I tell myself it's because I'm tired of fighting him, but the truth is that I want to see if this version of Hudson Carrington is real. He closes his hardcover mystery book and leans back, watching me with that clinical, piercing focus that always makes me feel like he's reading the fine print of my soul.
“I’m glad to see you made it to work without your car.” I watch his lips move over the rim of his cup and feel my lady bits tingle. Oh, man. I’m in so much trouble here.
