CHAPTER TWO TINSLEY
CHAPTER TWO
TINSLEY
The humidity in Silver Spoon Falls is no joke.
This morning, it’s decided to wrap itself around my neck like a damp wool scarf.
At barely seven in the morning, the air is already thick enough to chew.
I push through the door of The Golden Mug, the bell overhead letting out a cheerful jingle that feels personally offensive given how little sleep I managed last night.
My brain is a chaotic mess filled with the unsettling image of Hudson Carrington's hazel eyes staring straight into my soul.
A billionaire rancher with a god complex who doesn't understand the word 'no' should be easy to forget.
Instead, I spent all night staring at my ceiling, wondering why I could still feel the phantom heat of his gaze.
The smell of roasted beans and cinnamon usually perks me up, but today, it’s going to take a lot more than one cup of coffee.
I need a whole freaking gallon of the stuff.
The Golden Mug is buzzing with the seven o’clock rush, and I scan the line.
Shock cuts through me when my eyes land on a familiar pair of broad shoulders leaning against the counter.
I blink several times, wondering if my exhausted mind is making him up.
I close my eyes tight for a few seconds, then open them back up.
Nope. Hudson Freaking Carrington really is standing in my favorite coffee house.
There’s no mistaking the sheer, gravitational pull of his presence.
He looks like he belongs on a billboard for rugged masculinity, which is exactly the kind of thing I moved halfway across the country to avoid.
For a wealthy man, Hudson Carrington is aggressively unpolished.
His dark brown hair is cut short, and there’s a rough shadow of stubble covering his masculine jawline.
The scar slicing through his eyebrow is impossible to miss, and so is the way his mouth settles into a line that says he’s got zero tolerance for bullshit.
I want to turn around. I want to walk out and find some mediocre gas station brew. But I really need my caffeine, and The Golden Mug has the best coffee in town. I square my shoulders, adjusting the strap of my bag, and step into the queue.
"Morning, Tinsley." Hudson glances over, and his eyes meet mine. Damn. I should’ve run when I had the chance. He doesn't look surprised to see me.
"Mr. Carrington," I say, my voice sliding into the clinical, professional tone I've spent years perfecting.
“Call me Hudson.” I roll my eyes. Like I’m going to listen to his command.
“I pictured you as the type to have a fancy coffee machine at home.” It's a voice designed to discourage men who think a bank account is a personality trait.
“Guilty as charged.” He smirks, a slow, calculated expression that does something traitorous to my pulse and my girly bits.
The hazel in his eyes seems to catch the morning light, shifting from a deep forest green to a warm amber.
"I find I'm a fan of the local brew. And the company.
Plus, my fancy machine decided to start spewing pods out when I turn it on. "
“Sounds like it doesn’t like you either.” I step up to the register as the person in front of me leaves, pointedly ignoring the way the air seems to thin out when he moves closer.
“Either?” he asks. I try not to notice that he smells like cedar, leather, and cold morning air. And way too freaking intoxicating. Damn. I need my caffeine fix. Stat. I can feel his eyes moving over me. “Why don’t you like me?”
"The usual, Tinsley?" Sarah, the barista, thankfully cuts in before I’m forced to answer him.
She's already reaching for a cup, her eyes darting between me and the billionaire who is currently taking up all the oxygen in the room.
In a town this size, this interaction is going to be all over the local grapevine by noon.
"Yes, please. Oat milk latte, extra hot," I say, reaching for my phone.
“Six-fifty,” Sarah mutters. Before I can even tap my phone against the reader, Hudson leans over and presses his matte black credit card against the little white box.
"I've got this," Hudson says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest.
"No, you don't," I snap, my hand moving with surgical precision as I hold up my phone. I look Sarah dead in the eye. "Cancel that. I'm paying for mine."
“I can’t cancel it.” Sarah looks back and forth between us like it’s a tennis match.
“Oh, man, this is so much fun to watch,” a little old lady cackles behind us. Damn. Our little run-in is going to be the talk of the town. “I can’t wait to tell Fanny Mae.” Great. The Silver Spoon Falls Grapevine will be buzzing.
I pull a few bills out of my purse and stuff them in Hudson’s hand. It's a small victory, but I’ll take it. "I pay for my own coffee, Mr. Carrington. I pay for my own everything."
I grab my cup of coffee and walk out of the shop before he’s able to respond.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I make my way over to the Montoya Investments building.
Silver Spoon Falls is beautiful in the morning, the live oaks casting long shadows over the manicured lawns, but I'm too busy rehearsing my mental defenses to appreciate the scenery.
By the time I reach the office, I've managed to talk myself back into a state of semi-calm, telling myself these crazy feelings for Hudson Carrington will go away.
They don’t.
Not even close.
The next morning, I walk into The Golden Mug and find him standing at the counter, Stetson tipped back, long legs stretched out like he owns the place. He catches my eye before I can make a break for it. I force myself to play it cool, even though my heart is already galloping like a wild mustang.
“Morning, Tinsley.” His voice is low and smooth.
“Mr. Carrington.” I brush past him as if his presence barely registers. It’s a lie and I have a feeling he knows it. I somehow manage to grab my coffee and escape without jumping his bones, so I consider it a successful morning.
The same thing happens the next day. He’s there when I walk in the door. He tips his hat, eyes all lazy warmth. I manage to avoid having a long conversation with him, but he still manages to get under my skin without even trying.
Day three, he’s waiting by the door. “You’re late,” he drawls, as if we had an actual date set.
I roll my eyes. “I know how to tell time.”
He hands me a cup of coffee. “I can tell you need this.”
“Thanks,” I mutter and turn for the door before I do something stupid. Like fall for his charm.
After a few days, I finally admit to myself that I’m looking forward to my morning coffee way more than I used to. Damn. I’m actually counting the hours until I see him again.