CHAPTER TWELVE HUDSON
CHAPTER TWELVE
HUDSON
There’s something about watching her move through the apartment in the morning—tired, unfiltered, radiating “don’t you dare” energy—that makes me wish I could bottle the feeling.
Every time she moves past me in the kitchen, her shoulder brushes my chest, her hip bumps me, and I let it happen even when there’s plenty of room to avoid contact. I think she does, too.
We don’t talk much at breakfast. She likes her mornings quiet; I learned that by day three. She sips her coffee with that glassy-eyed focus of someone plotting world domination while I nurse mine and pretend to check the day’s markets.
Most mornings, we stop by The Golden Mug on our way to the Montoya Building.
I order a drip coffee and she gets an oat milk latte, extra hot.
The barista, Sarah, knows our orders now, and she’ll wink at Tinsley and say, “The usual?” before we even get to the counter.
Then I walk her to Montoya Investments, where she clocks in at 8:00 on the dot.
I kiss her goodbye at the front door, nothing showy, just a hand on her shoulder and a quick press of lips, and then I walk back to my truck and head out to the ranch.
On weekends, the geography reverses. Tinsley drives out to Carrington Ranch in her black Corolla on Friday evenings, and we stay out here until Monday morning.
This morning, I watch her from the library door as she stands at the window with her coffee.
She doesn’t see me, or she pretends not to, and I just stand there, memorizing her.
She runs a thumb over the handle of her mug, sets it down in its usual spot, and then turns around.
She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow.
“You going to lurk all morning, or are you going to come join me?” she says, voice warm and unhurried.
I cross the room and pull her in, her head just below my chin, her body soft against mine. “I could watch you all fucking day long,” I say, and I mean it.
She leans into me, lips brushing my jaw. “You’re a smooth talker, Mr. Carrington.”
I grin against her hair. “Only with you.”
Saturday mornings at Carrington Ranch start slower than the rest. It’s the only day the house doesn’t hum at dawn with ranch hands or other staff.
We’re halfway through our breakfast when the front door swings open with a snap loud enough to rattle the glass. It’s never locked. The ranch hands know to come straight to me if there’s trouble. It’s always been like this.
This time, it’s a ranch hand from the day crew.
Young guy, boots caked in black mud from the north pasture, Carhartt overalls wet to the knee.
He barely looks up before cutting across the main hall, heading straight for my office on the other side of the house.
On the way, he clips the corner of the kitchen doorway and nearly collides with Tinsley, who’s standing stock-still, coffee mug hoisted halfway to her mouth.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” the kid says, nodding at her like she’s part of the decor. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t even see me. Just keeps moving, boots leaving a muddy diagonal across the tile and into the shadowed interior corridor.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath. The busy ranch house never bothered me before. But I can see it’s starting to get to Tinsley.
“I’m not crazy about people walking through the house at all times of the day and night,” she says. Voice low, completely steady.
I walk over and pull her into my arms. “I know. I’ll take care of it.” I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she’s comfortable and happy in my home.
Monday morning, I’m in the equipment barn at 5:30. I call an all-hands before sunrise meeting. After everyone shows up, I get right down to business.
“From now on, nobody goes through the main house without ringing the bell on the porch first. Doesn’t matter why you’re there. You ring the bell, and you wait to be let in. That’s the rule. Anyone who doesn’t like it can come talk to me, but it’s nonnegotiable.”
There’s a little shuffling. Some raised eyebrows. Slim, who’s old enough to remember my grandfather, just nods and keeps chewing his toothpick. A few glances dart toward each other, but nobody challenges the rule. They know better.
“Questions?” I ask, scanning the faces. None.
“Good. Get to work.”
Later that afternoon, I call up the contractor who handles our renovations. I tell him I need a new door cut into the exterior wall of the office wing with direct access from the driveway.
We agree on a price, and he tells me it’ll take a week, two at most. I say to send the bill to accounting, and to get it done as soon as possible.
The contractor’s barely hung up before I’m texting Morgan to clear my schedule all next week for the install crew. I want this handled. No fucking waiting around.
Later that night, I let myself into Tinsley’s apartment and find her curled on the sofa, feet tucked up, her laptop open and a mug balanced dangerously close to her knee.
I just stand there, watching her for a minute.
The light from the windows turns her hair to molten copper.
She’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest hurt.
I clear my throat. Her eyes flick up, cool and assessing. “You’re late,” she says, not even a hint of surprise.
“I had a busy day.” I drop onto the opposite couch, elbows on my knees. “I had a ton of work to catch up on. Plus, I arranged to have an exterior door installed in my office. That way the hands and staff don’t have to cut through the main house to get to my office.”
She stares for a beat, like she’s looking for the catch, the fine print. Then she nods, voice softer. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me,” I say, picking up her foot and working my thumb along her arch. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”
Once the door install is done, we spend nearly every night at the ranch. The rhythm shifts. Her stuff slowly moves into my bedroom. She owns the space without even trying. Just like she claimed my goddamn heart.