TINSLEY
CHAPTER SIX
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.
“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.
Hudson
When do you want to go?
Me
Does Saturday morning work for you?
Hudson
See you then.
I blow out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. I did it. I actually asked Hudson Carrington for help, and the world didn’t end. Who knows what’ll happen next.