“Having second thoughts?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
He shook his head quickly. “No, I just… I want to help. I'm just not sure I know how.”
That made two of us. I rubbed at my temple where a headache was already starting to form. “I should apologize in advance forwhat's probably going to be a pretty shitty attitude. I'm not great at being vulnerable.”
“Yeah,” Dusty said with a small smile. “I never would have guessed that about a professional football player.”
I glanced at my phone—4:18 PM. My stomach growled, a painful twist that matched the throbbing in my temples. No wonder I felt like garbage. Between the medication drama and packing, I'd completely forgotten to eat.
I followed Dusty up the worn wooden steps, hefting my duffel with my good arm. The strap dug into my palm, another small discomfort piling onto the growing collection.
The door creaked open to reveal an interior that bore zero resemblance to The Ranch's polished luxury. Rough-hewn log walls surrounded a single open space with a kitchenette in one corner and a threadbare couch facing a stone fireplace. A narrow hallway led to what I assumed was the bedroom. Everything looked clean but worn, like a place built for function rather than comfort.
No plush king bed. No rainfall shower. No room service.
My stomach lurched again, this time from anxiety rather than hunger. Spending days in this isolated box with a man I barely knew, facing down the demons I'd been medicating into submission. The walls felt too close, the air too still.
“I know it's not what you're used to,” Dusty said, watching my face. “But sometimes simple works better than fancy when you're trying to heal.”
I dropped my bag, forcing down the panic. Simple. Basic.
Maybe that's exactly what I needed.
Chapter Seven
Dusty
The cabin was smaller than I remembered.
Maybe it was Cord pacing the living room like a caged animal, all restless energy and coiled tension. Or maybe it was what I'd just done—taken a client off-property during a medical crisis, crossed every boundary I'd kept clean for seven years, put my job on the line for someone I barely knew.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. Text from Sam about the outdoor business finances. Signal bar showed one flickering dot, barely enough to get messages through, forget about calls.
"Someone trying to reach you?" Cord asked without stopping his circuit around the coffee table. His good hand kept flexing and unflexing. "Your bosses checking up?"
I pulled out the phone, scanned it. "Just family stuff. My brothers want to talk numbers for the business."
"Everything okay?"
"Jake's probably trying to convince Sam to buy a third raft before we've paid off the second one." I pocketed the phone. "He's got big ideas on a small budget."
Cord made a sound in his throat, still pacing. He'd done maybe twenty laps around the coffee table since we got here. The repetitive movement was getting to me too.
"When's the last time you ate?" I asked.
He stopped mid-pace, squinting like he was trying to pull up the memory. "Breakfast, maybe? I don't know. Everything's blurred together."
I headed for the kitchen, grateful for something concrete to do. The fridge had Vincent's handiwork all over it, with labeled containers from The Ranch kitchen, fresh ingredients, even a six-pack of that fancy mineral water he swore cured everything.
"Look at this." I pulled out the water. "Fifty dollars worth of Swiss mountain spring water. Vincent swears it has healing properties."
"Does it work?" Cord's voice was flat.
"It's water. From Switzerland. So... no." I grabbed bread and sandwich fixings. "But it tastes expensive, which apparently helps."
That didn't even register. Cord had moved to the window, staring out at the darkening hills like they might tell him something useful. His shoulders were locked up tight, and even from across the room I could feel the tension coming off him in waves.
I made two sandwiches without talking, hyper-aware of how quiet it was. No background music, no sounds of other people anywhere nearby. Just the ancient refrigerator humming and the occasional creak of old wood.
