I thought about that last morning in my suite, watching Dusty walk away. The anger in his eyes when I'd offered money. The hurt underneath it. This time would be different. This time I'd show up with partnership, with commitment, with a real plan. This time I'd get it right.
Or at least, I'd try.
Chapter Seventeen
Dusty
The sketch was wrong again.
I erased the line of his jaw for the third time, graphite smudging under my thumb. Too sharp. Cord's jaw wasn't sharp—it was strong but softened by that slight asymmetry when he smiled, the way his left side lifted just a fraction higher than his right. Except I couldn't remember if that was real or something I'd invented during the last month of drawing the same face over and over.
My office was quiet except for the scratch of pencil on paper and the distant sound of water from the pools. Between classes. Between everything, suspended in the strange limbo of having a life but not living it.
My eyes closed as a sense of shame washed over me. Despite what happened, I still had this amazing job, as long as I wanted it. I had my health, a fantastic roommate, a work family who cared about me. My bosses wanted me to head up a wellness program expansion, which meant more money, moreresponsibility. “Just in case you change your mind,” Vincent had said. Everything I should want.
Except I didn't want it. What I wanted was in Denver, finishing physical therapy, not thinking about the yoga instructor who'd said no to help and yes to pride.
My pencil moved across the page. His shoulders this time, the way they'd looked that morning by the stream, water droplets catching sunlight—
“You're good at that.”
The pencil clattered to the floor.
Cord stood in my doorway, shoulder brace gone, dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my lungs forget how to work. He wore jeans and a button-down, hair longer, scruff on his jaw like he'd been too busy to shave. He looked good. Healthy. Here.
“Hey.” The word came out barely above a whisper. My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my desk.
“Hey.” He stepped into my office, and I caught the careful way he moved. Not injured anymore, just mindful. “Can I come in?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He closed the door behind him.
“You look good,” he said. “I mean, you look tired. But good.”
“You too. Your shoulder… the brace is off.”
“Yeah. Got cleared two weeks ago. Full range of motion restored.” He rolled it, demonstrating. “Ninety-five percent recovery. Better than they projected.”
“I saw the interview. The retirement announcement.” I picked up the pencil, just to have something to do with my hands. “That was big.”
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Felt right though. Still does.”
“Broadcasting suits you. You were good on camera.”
“Thanks. It's been interesting, learning something new.” He paused. “Is it weird that I'm here?”
“A little. But good weird.” I set the pencil down. “What are you doing here, Cord?”
“I came back for you, Dusty.”
The declaration made my chest ache. I looked down at my sketch, at weeks of trying to capture something I thought I'd lost.
“Cord, we already talked about this. I can't accept—”
“I'm not offering money.” He pulled out an iPad, brought up a document. “I'm offering partnership.”
The iPad appeared on my desk between us. Partnership Proposal - Miller Fine Arts & Guest House. My hands shook as I picked it up.
The document was professional. Detailed. The Marfa building—the one I'd lost—with a complete business plan. Art gallery on the ground floor, boutique guest house on the second. Revenue projections, market analysis, profit-sharing structure. Both our names listed as equal partners.
