“No.” I caught his wrist. “Stay here is fine. By the window or something.”
He nodded, standing and moving to the windows, giving me space while staying close. I turned back to the iPad, scrolling through the document again. The numbers were solid. The plan was viable. He'd done the work, learned the business, created something equal instead of something that would make me feel small.
But underneath all of it was the bigger question: Did I trust him? Not with money or business plans, but with the parts of myself I'd kept locked away for so long?
I looked up. He stood at the window, backlit by afternoon sun, hands in his pockets. Patient. Waiting. Not pushing.
The answer was yes. I'd known it was yes the moment he walked through my door.
I stood, crossed to him. He turned as I approached, questions in his eyes.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yeah?” His voice was rough, uncertain, like he'd been braced for rejection.
“Yeah. To all of it. The partnership, the gallery, the guest house.” I reached for his hand. “To us.”
His fingers threaded through mine, grip firm. “You mean that?”
“I do. I'm terrified, but I mean it.”
“Good.” He pulled me close, forehead resting against mine. “I'm terrified too. But I want this. Want you. Want to build something together that means something.”
I tilted my head up, found his mouth with mine. The kiss was slow, deliberate, full of promise. When we pulled apart, his hands cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
“I love you,” he said. The words came out steady, certain, like he'd been holding them back and couldn't anymore.
My chest went tight, heat spreading through my ribs. “I love you too.”
His eyes searched mine. “You sure? Because I need you to be sure.”
“I'm sure.” I traced his jaw, feeling stubble under my palm. “I haven't wanted anything casual since the cabin. You ruined me for everyone else.”
“Good.” His hands slid to my waist, pulling me flush against him. “Because this is real. All of it.”
Heat pooled low in my belly. “Your shoulder—”
“Is cleared for everything. Full mobility, full strength.” His smile turned wicked. “I asked specific questions during my final physical therapy evaluation.”
I laughed despite the want building in my chest. “We're in my office—”
“Lock the door.”
Simple permission. I crossed to the door, turned the lock, heard it click. When I turned back, Cord was watching me with an intensity that made my mouth go dry.
“Come here,” he said.
I crossed to him, and his hands found my shirt, pulling it up. When I was bare-chested, his eyes traveled over me like he was cataloging every change.
“You lost weight.”
“Wasn't hungry.” I reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head with care even though he didn't need it anymore. When his chest was bare, I traced the surgical scars, pale pink now, healing well. “These look good.”
“Feel good too. Everything works.” He demonstrated by reaching up and back, full range of motion. “See? Cleared.”
“Show-off.” But my hands were already moving lower, working at his belt.
“You love it.” His mouth found mine again as we worked each other's jeans down.
