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)
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.