“Cord! You made it.”
Vincent Stone strode toward me in his signature white linen suit, sandy blond hair catching the light, a Stetson tipped back on his head like he'd walked off a movie set. He clapped me on the back, careful with his touch, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned. The man had an effortless charm that made everyone feel like his best friend, which probably explained how he and Ibrahim had built this place into what it was. No doubt he already knew I was coming. Nothing escaped the notice of The Ranch's co-founder.
“Vince, good to see you.” We fell into a simple rhythm, walking together across the grounds toward the pool complex. I could feel him studying me, cataloging my condition like he did with all his guests. Vincent was good at his job, keeping everyone satisfied while managing a small army of staff and clients.
We passed one of the massage huts, its door open to reveal plush treatment tables inside. A companion led an older gentleman toward the steam rooms, their voices low and intimate.
“How's business?”
“Booming as always.” He flashed his perfect Ken doll smile. “So, how's the shoulder? Looked nasty on TV. Glad that asshole got what was coming to him, though they should've suspended him all season.”
Here we go. Everyone wanted to talk about the hit. Everyone had an opinion about what the league should have done.
I winced, not wanting to think about football. “I'm here to forget about that for a while. Just relax, work out the kinks.” I rolled my shoulder, feeling the familiar ache. “The doc says I should be back to 100% by next season.”
Lies, but Vincent didn't need to know about the surgery decision hanging over my head.
“Well, you came to the right place.” Vince tapped my good shoulder. “We've got a great yoga instructor here. His classes would be perfect for your recovery. Low impact, helps increase flexibility and range of motion. Maybe even some private therapy.” He winked.
I cocked an eyebrow. Yoga wasn't exactly what I had in mind for recreation.
Just then, a young man jogged up to Vince and whispered in his ear.
“Sorry Cord, duty calls. But do check out the yoga studio.” He nodded toward a building past the main swimming pool, waggled his brows and added in a conspiratorial tone, “You won't regret it. Maybe I'll see you for dinner tonight?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Vince hurried off, leaving me alone in the crisp fall air. I squinted at the yoga studio, skepticism warring with curiosity. What did Vince mean I wouldn't regret it? Knowing Vincent, probably some flexible instructor who looks good in yoga pants.
With a shrug, I headed toward the building. A little stretching couldn't hurt. Maybe yoga had changed since the last time I tried it years ago.
I found myself standing outside the yoga studio, peering through the large window. The room was filled with a handful of men, their bodies twisted into poses under the guidance of one attractive instructor.
Jesus Christ.
Tall, muscular, with blond hair pulled back into a knot, he wore only a pair of tiny blue briefs that barely covered his dick. He flowed from one pose to the next, muscles rippling under tanned skin. Heat washed over me as I watched him bend at the waist, hands reaching toward his toes.
When was the last time I'd had such a visceral reaction to a man?
Get it together, Morales.You're staring through a window like some creep.
As if sensing my gaze, the instructor straightened and looked right at me. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of eyes that were a vivid blue.
My heart stuttered. If this was Vincent's idea of physical therapy, I'd soon be back on the injured list.
After class ended, he approached, hands settling into prayer position at his heart. “Namaste.” He bowed his head. “I'm Dusty.”
“Cord.” I cleared my throat as I looked up at him, taller than me by a couple inches. “Vince said you might help with my shoulder. I've got an injury...”
Smooth. Real professional.
The whole place screamed new-age nonsense: singing bowls scattered around, incense burning in corners, meditation music playing soft in the background. But looking at Dusty made it hard to care about the atmosphere.
“What's got you hurting, handsome?” he asked, moving closer with easy grace. His voice was honey and heat, and I caught the way his eyes traveled over me like he was sketching me in his mind.
He didn't recognize me. The realization hit me like a surprise blitz. No double-take, no stammering about my stats or asking for a selfie. He looked at me like I was just another man.
“Torn rotator cuff, some nerve damage.” My jaw tightened. “Surgery scheduled for a few weeks from now, but they want me to regain some mobility before I go under the knife.”
