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She keeps right on typing. “That’s too bad.” Tinsley finally leans back, her chair creaking slightly. Her expression shifts from boredom to something sharper, something that feels like a wall being reinforced with titanium. "Because I’m not interested in what you’re offering."

I clamp my jaw shut so tight it aches. Not another word. It's the only move I've got left. I spin on my heel, bone-dry resolve holding me together as I stalk out of that lobby. Outside, Texas humidity slaps me in the face like a hot, wet towel, a rude switch from the subzero, rejection-packed air behind me. My brain just keeps looping the same insanity. I'm obsessed. No, scratch that. I’m certifiably half-crazed over Tinsley.

I stomp across the parking lot, boots thudding a stubborn rhythm toward my truck. With every step, the air grows heavier, the urge tighter, until it’s burning in my chest. I don’t care about the rules. I don’t care about pride. I need her. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make her mine.

The Texas sun beats down across my shoulders as I stalk across the parking lot. My boots slap the hot pavement with a violence that matches the circus inside my head. Fuck me.

Tinsley’s freezing me out so hard, I swear the ice in her voice could stop traffic. I’m half convinced I’m losing my mind. I grab the door of my truck and just stand there, fist wrapped tight enough the metal sears my hand. My reflection glares back at me in the window. I look like a pussy-whipped motherfucker. Great.

I drag in a breath. The air is thick and hot, and I want to punch something. Instead, I slam into the driver’s seat and rip the Stetson off, tossing it onto the dash.

I sit and stew for a minute, replaying every second of that rejection. I’m used to closing deals, not getting stonewalled by a five-foot-seven goddess with a NASA-grade security system around her heart.

God. I want her. I want her body pressed against mine, her mouth open with my name on it, her nails raking lines down my back. I want her brain, too. The sharp, scary brilliance that slices through bullshit like barbed wire.

All I get is a cold shoulder and my own blue balls for company. Looks like it’s time to up my game.

CHAPTER FOUR

TINSLEY

The pink is offensive. It isn't just the color, though the shade of these peonies is so vibrant it looks like they were grown in a greenhouse powered by pure audacity. It's the sheer volume of them. There are enough petals on my desk at Montoya Investments to carpet a small cathedral, and the scent is currently staging a hostile takeover of my nasal passages.

"Oh my God, Tinsley," Shana from accounting says, leaning over the low wall of my reception cubicle. Her eyes are wide, reflecting the floral explosion. "Who is he?"

"He's a nuisance," I say, my grip tightening on my pen. I focus on the spreadsheet on my screen, but the numbers are starting to swim in a sea of magenta. "A very wealthy, very bored nuisance with no concept of personal boundaries."

Shana reaches out to touch a velvet-soft petal, her face going dreamy. "I’d take one of those any day of the week."

Not me. I moved to Silver Spoon Falls to be self-sufficient. Not to fall for a billionaire who doesn’t know how to take “no” as an answer.

Every day, there’s something new from Hudson. On Tuesday, it’s an even bigger avalanche of flowers. I can’t see my damn computer monitor. Shana comes by and stands there for a full two minutes, breathing deep like she’s at a spa.

“Wow, Tinsley. He’s got it bad.”

“He needs a hobby,” I mutter.

The next day, a delivery guy from the local bistro arrives. He asks for me and sets a bag down on the counter. It smells of truffle oil and roasted garlic.

"I didn't order this," I tell the kid.

"Paid for, ma'am. Tip included. Have a nice day." He’s gone before I can reach for my wallet, leaving me with a lunch that costs more than my weekly grocery budget and a growing sense of being way the heck out of my depth.

The next day’s delivery is a gourmet salad the size of a dinner plate with an envelope taped on top. I open it up and fight to read the messy writing.

Enjoy your day.

H.

The handwriting makes my stomach do a weird flip. I toss the card in my desk drawer with the others and tell myself I don’t care. I rip into the overpriced salad like it personally insulted me. I focus on my spreadsheet, but every time I hit a fresh cell, the scent of peonies hits me in the face. It’s like the jerk knew exactly how to distract me.

I’m not supposed to like this. I’m not supposed to like him.

And yet every damn morning, I wake up with my mind on high alert, pulse beating like a drum. Secretly hoping Hudson himself, with his broad shoulders and impossible confidence and his voice that haunts my dreams, actually shows up. Freaking hell.

The worst part? I keep telling myself I don’t need anyone, least of all a billionaire rancher with control issues and a smile lethal enough to get past my defenses.

But every day, it gets a little harder to believe my own BS. I shouldn’t feel anything for him. But my heart didn’t get that memo.