TINSLEY
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You eat here often?” I ask, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice. The last thing I want is to come off as a snob, but I haven’t set foot in a real diner since middle school.
“Absolutely,” Hudson says, not missing a beat. He’s already moving for the glass door, holding my hand. “This place has the best food in town. Trust me.”
Inside, the place is a nostalgia bomb. The walls are covered with old Coca-Cola signs and photos of rock stars from the seventies and eighties.
There’s a black-and-white checkerboard tile under my feet that looks so clean I could eat off it.
Red vinyl booths line the room, glossy and bright.
Each one is trimmed in chrome. The waitress behind the counter looks up and smiles at us. “Have a seat anywhere you like.”
Hudson steers me toward a booth in the back.
He slides into the seat across and stretches his legs under the table.
The table’s got a mini jukebox on it, glittering in the neon light, and a laminated menu covered in pictures of giant cheeseburgers.
There’s a glass pie case on the counter filled with mile-high cakes and slices of peanut butter pie.
“So, this is your scene,” I say, studying the menu. “I figured you’d go for something a little more… white tablecloth.”
Hudson glances over at me and winks. “This place has the best burgers in town. No contest.”
The waitress comes by, pen poised, and we order the same thing, two 5th Avenue burgers, two orders of fries, and two strawberry shakes.
I can’t help myself; I watch him as he stretches an arm over the top of the booth, the line of his shoulders filling the whole frame. He looks relaxed, but there’s a kind of charge under the surface. Like a coil waiting for the right moment to spring.
“So,” he says after a minute, “what’s your story, Tinsley Essen?”
I laugh, because it’s so obvious he’s been dying to ask that since the moment we met. “What, you didn’t have your private investigator dig up my entire life history already?”
He leans forward, lowering his voice. “I did, actually. But I want to know the real you.”
I trace the rim of my water glass with one thumbnail, feeling the smooth resistance. “It’s not that interesting.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me, all quiet patience.
“My parents were killed in a car accident when I was a toddler, and I ended up in foster care.” It really isn’t a pretty story, and I really hate talking about it.
Hudson cocks his head, watching me like I’m a tricky horse he’s trying to break. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him as the waitress brings our shakes to the table. I take a sip, and it’s the best thing I’ve tasted in years. The cold sugar hits my nerves and takes the edge off the stressful day.
“Why did you choose Silver Spoon Falls?” Hudson asks.
“Entry level jobs in finance are hard to find, and the job at Montoya Investments was too good to pass up.” I stare out the window, watching headlights streak past on Main.
“I’m glad you ended up here.” Hudson rests his forearms on the table, folding his hands together. His voice is softer, but no less certain. “I’m falling for you, Tinsley.”
My mind zeroes out. For maybe the first time in years, I’m not prepared with a cutting comeback. Hudson’s just staring at me. No smirk, no swagger. Honest-to-God vulnerability shining from his stunning eyes.
My heart pounds away in my chest as I sit there, frozen, while my mind attempts to reboot.
All my warning systems are flashing, my internal shields scrambling to re-arm.
But it’s too late. He’s already inside whatever fortress I built.
The walls are gone. I’m exposed, raw, and somehow more alive than I’ve ever been.
I could tell him to slow down. That we don’t know each other. That it’s just physical, or some dumb effect of the water in this crazy town. But I don’t want to.
Hudson watches me like the world depends on what I’ll say next.
“I’m falling for you, too, Hudson.”
The burgers arrive, massive and stacked with lettuce, tomato, onion, cheese melting over the sides. The fries are crisp and golden, a little uneven, the way homemade ones are supposed to be. For a while, we don’t talk; we just eat. I realize, halfway through, that I was starving.
Hudson polishes off his burger in three bites, then leans back, arms crossed. “Told you they’re the best.”
I nod my head, mouth full. “I’ll give you this one.”
He smiles, broader this time, and I feel the effect in my own face. The waitress checks on us, drops the check, and Hudson looks at it then looks back at me.
“Is it alright with you if I pay for our dinner?” he says.
Darn. He really is learning. “Fine. But I’m leaving the tip.”
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
We sit a few minutes longer. The booth is small enough that our knees keep knocking, and I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose or if he just takes up too much space for it to be avoided. Either way, it makes my pulse jump every time.
We leave the diner, the bell on the door jangling as we step out into the thick Texas night. Hudson puts his hand at the small of my back, just for a second, guiding me to the truck. The heat of his palm lingers there, even after he opens my door and I climb up.
The drive back to my apartment is quiet, but not in a bad way.
The silence is comfortable. Hudson doesn’t rush the drive.
He takes his time winding through Silver Spoon Falls, arm draped casually over the steering wheel, glancing at me now and then.
By the time we reach my place, the sky’s a bruise-colored blue and the porch light at the front of my building is the only thing burning bright on the whole street.
My apartment is in a three-story brick walk-up. It’s small and crowded, but I like it. The steps creak under my feet as we climb to the landing. Hudson follows close, not crowding me, but close enough that I can feel the static of his presence sparking up my spine.
At my door, I dig for my keys, aware of him at my shoulder, quiet and patient. I unlock it, and before I can come up with a polite brush-off, I hear myself ask, “You want to come in?” My voice is even, zero tremor. I don’t know if I’m more surprised or relieved to find I actually mean it.
Hudson just nods and steps inside, taking up all the space even when he stands perfectly still.
My apartment is clean, but small. Sparse furniture, cheap but chosen with intent, every piece exactly where I want it.
There are my favorite art prints on the walls and a stack of battered paperbacks crowds my coffee table.
The only light is a single lamp in the corner, casting a cone of gold over my secondhand couch.
He looks around, then at me, and says nothing. Just steps in and shuts the door behind him.
“I usually have a rule about not letting strange men into my home,” I say, toes digging into the welcome mat. “But you’ve passed all my tests so far.”
He grins and walks over to stand next to me. “I’m glad to hear it, sweetheart.” He shifts and the air snaps tight. He cups my jaw with one hand, gentle but decisive, and his thumb sweeps across my cheekbone.
“I want to kiss you more than I want my next breath,” he breathes out.
“Then kiss me.” I’m done fighting my feelings for him.
His kiss is nothing like last time. Not a heat-of-the-moment, hands-on-the-doorframe kind of kiss.
This one is slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world and he’s going to use every second of it.
I melt against him, my mouth opening on a sigh I don’t bother hiding.
His other hand finds my hip and pulls me closer to his hard, muscular body
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine, and the world narrows to that single point of contact. His breath is slow and steady.
“Tinsley,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t want to rush this.”
I nod, eyes closed. My hands are on his chest, fingers bunched in his shirt. I can feel the hard beat of his heart under my palm.
“I want you,” I admit. “But I don’t know how to do this.”
He smiles, barely there. “We’ll figure it out.”
He kisses me again, quick this time, and then he looks at me like he’s memorizing the moment.
“I’ll see you Monday? For the car?”
I can only nod, my throat too tight for anything else.
He’s halfway to the door when I say, “Hudson?”
He turns, hand on the knob.
“Thank you. For everything.”
He inclines his head, one hand braced against the door frame. “Thank you for letting me in. I’ll see you Monday.”
After he leaves, I lock the door behind him and sit on my couch, the imprint of his hands still on my skin, and listen to the soft tick of the wall clock.
I realize, for the first time in a long time, that I’m not scared of needing someone. Or of someone needing me.