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“There’s this new-fangled thing called Uber.” I somehow manage not to roll my eyes. “All you have to do is type in a few directions, and bam, you get a ride.”
“You live to give me shit, don’t you?” He sits back and gives me an actual smile.
“I do.” I smile back, a little shocked at how this conversation is going. “I’m actually very impressed by your restraint.”
"I'm not very good at that. My life has been about acquisition. Pushing forward. Taking the space before someone else does, but I’m willing to learn."
“I see,” I say, but I don’t really. I’m completely shocked by this new version of Hudson Carrington. We sit in silence for a moment, the hum of the coffee shop fading into a domestic bubble that feels dangerously comfortable. He doesn't ask me for a date. He doesn't try to buy me anything. He doesn’t tell me what to do.
"You're actually kind of funny when you aren't threatening to buy the building," I admit, setting my empty cup down. "It's a bit disorienting."
"I'm a man of many layers, Tinsley," he says, a hint of the old smirk returning, but it's warmer now. "Most people just never bother to peel them back. They're too busy looking at the bank balance."
"Well, I'm not interested in your money," I say, standing up. I need to leave before the hyperawareness of his presence becomes a permanent state of being. "I have to get to work."
"Tinsley," he says, stopping me as I turn away. He doesn't reach for my hand, but his gaze is just as tactile. "Let me know what you decide about the car."
“You’ll be the first to know.” I walk out of The Golden Mug with my heart doing a strange, rhythmic dance against my ribs. I catch my reflection in a shop window and realize I'm wearing a goofy smile.
I force the idiotic smile off my face and head straight for work, pretending that the little flutter in my chest has nothing to do with a cowboy in denim and everything to do with caffeine. I’m not fooling myself. I spend the rest of the morning distracted, stabbing at spreadsheets and dodging Shana’s side-eye as she breezes through the lobby.
After my shift, I lock myself in my apartment and pull up my laptop, bracing for pain. The reality check hits hard. My savings account mocks me from the online banking portal. I take a breath and start the loan application, hammering out every answer like it’s an Olympic sport. Income? Not much. Assets? Nonexistent.
I calculate the monthly payment I could swing without selling a kidney. It’s not much, but I take pride in the ugly number. Next, I start the online search for my new ride, my standards dropping by the nanosecond.
Scrolling through the listings depresses me. Then I actually see something that doesn’t make me want to hurl my laptop across the room. Black Toyota Corolla, reasonable mileage, listed by some guy in Houston. It isn’t glamorous, but neither am I. I click the “Contact Seller” button and try not to overthink it.
The seller messages back, wanting to meet up this weekend. I stare at the screen like it might bite. First of all, I have no way to get to Houston. Plus, meeting a random dude in some parking lot is a really bad idea. That’s how people get murdered on Dateline. My gut twists just thinking about it.
I need someone who won’t let me get ripped off or end up as a cautionary tale on a true-crime podcast. Dammit. I’m going to have to swallow my pride and actually ask Hudson for help.
I can’t believe I’m considering this. But I need a car that runs without blowing up.
I grab my phone so fast I almost drop it. My thumb hovers over Hudson’s name for a full minute before I type out a text.
Me
I made a decision on the car.
Almost immediately, three little dots appear on the screen, and I hold my breath while waiting for his reply.
Hudson
What did you decide?
Me
I’m going let my old car go to car heaven and buy a used car.
Hudson
Do you need my help?
Well, that’s the perfect opening. I hurry up and type out my reply before I’m able to talk myself out of asking for his help.
Me
I actually do. I found a car in Houston, but I don’t want to go look at it by myself.
