Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
"The numbers are fine, Cash," I say, though I haven't actually processed a single digit. My mind’s a chaotic loop of shock and desire. I’m imagining the way her sweet pussy will feel against my tongue, wondering if she tastes like that citrus perfume she’s wearing. The thought’s so vivid, so visceral, that I feel a tightening in my trousers that’s got nothing to do with business and everything to do with the woman sitting nineteen floors below behind a marble desk. I’m losing my mind.
"You’re distracted," Cash says, leaning back in his chair. He’s a man who understands power, and he’s clearly seeing the shift in mine. "Have you been drinking the goddamn water?"
Fuck my life. I can’t believe Cash would buy into the bullshit Silver Spoon Falls old wives tail that says drinking the water in town leads to finding your “soulmate.”
"Don’t start that shit," I reply, forcing my voice to remain level. I lean forward, trying to anchor myself in the reality of the mahogany table and the glowing screen at the end of the room. "We need to finish up. I have another appointment." My next appointment consists of finding out every fucking thing there is to know about Tinsley.
The rest of the meeting’s a blur of logistics and financial projections. I nod at the right times, ask the necessary questions about interest rates and land rights, but my mind is consumed with her.
When the meeting finally ends, I don't linger for the usual post-game banter with Cash. I shake his hand, gather my things, and move toward the door with a sense of urgency that feels like a physical weight.
I step back into the lobby, and the tension’s only thickened. Tinsley’s still there, her red hair a bright beacon against the clinical white of the office. She’s on the phone, her voice a low, melodic hum that I want to record and play on repeat. She doesn't look up when I approach.
I stand at the desk, waiting. She finishes her call, hangs up the receiver with a deliberate click, and finally meets my eyes. Her expression hasn't changed.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Carrington?" she asks, her voice dry. She leans back, her eyes tracing the line of my shoulders before returning to my face.
"I want to take you to dinner, Tinsley," I say, the words coming out before I can filter them. "Tonight. There’s a place in town that does a steak almost as good as the ones on my ranch."
She looks at me for a long beat. She doesn't blush. She doesn't look flattered.
"No, thank you," she says, her voice flat. "I’ve got plans."
"Plans?" Oh, hell no. Jealousy cuts through my soul. There’s no way I’m letting another man take her out.
"I’ve got a date with a bottle of wine and a book." I can’t believe she turned me down.
“Dinner with me would be more fun.” I can’t believe I’m practically begging her.
She actually rolls her eyes at me. “I seriously doubt that.” If I wasn’t so fucking disappointed, I’d probably be impressed with the bored look on her face. I can already see this girl is going to give me a run for my money.
I feel a laugh start in my chest—a genuine, surprised sound that I haven't made in years. She’s incredible. She’s a nightmare. She’s the first woman I’ve met who doesn't want anything from me, and it makes me want to give her everything. I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that’s meant only for her. “I guess I’ll just have to keep asking until you say yes.” I wink at her and head out the door before she’s able to stomp on my heart again.
As I walk out the automatic glass door, I hear Tinsley call behind me, “You must have a thing for rejection.” Not usually, but I’m discovering that nothing is the same after meeting this stunning woman.
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.