She closed her notebook. “This has been wonderful. The piece should run next month. I'll send you the draft for approval.”
“Perfect.” I walked her to the front door, shook her hand with the appropriate level of professional warmth. “Thanks for making the trip out here.”
I watched her rental car pull away before closing the door. Six months since Cord walked into my yoga studio at The Ranch with that business plan, and of us learning how to build something together.
The building purchase closed in early December, faster than expected when Cord's advisor pulled strings. Then came two months of renovation hell. Contractors who didn't show up, surprise electrical problems, me fighting to preserve every original detail while Cord argued about budget overruns and building codes. We handled most of the work ourselves, which saved money but cost time and at least two major fights about proper drywall technique.
Jake never paid back the money. How could he? Gail had recommended legal action, and I spent two weeks researching fraud charges, talked to a local lawyer who said I had a case. But pressing charges meant destroying what was left of the family business, putting Mom in the middle, making Sam choose sides. So I didn't. The trust was gone anyway, broken in wayslawsuits couldn't fix. Sam handled Jake's removal from business operations. I just stopped returning his calls.
The gallery opened soft in March, hard launch in April. Marisol's desert landscapes sold within two weeks—three to collectors, one to a museum in Santa Fe. Nico's bronzes took longer, but when they moved, they went for prices that made him quit his day job. I brought in two photographers, a fiber artist, and a sculptor whose work with reclaimed materials fit the space perfectly.
The guest house apartments stayed booked most weekends. Cord handled reservations between ESPN gigs, making the three-hour drive to Midland to catch flights to Dallas for broadcasts, or the six hour drive to Austin, always coming home wired and exhausted. I managed the gallery, taught yoga workshops twice a month at Sam's outdoor center, painted when I could find time. We fought about him traveling too much, about me working until midnight three days straight before an opening, about accepting a commission from a collector whose politics made my skin crawl.
Normal couple shit. The kind that meant we were real, not performing perfect.
Money stayed tight those first months. The business plan was solid, but reality always costs more than projections. We made it work—guest house revenue covered mortgage and utilities, gallery sales funded operations and artist payments. Cord's ESPN contract carried us through the lean patches. By month five, we broke even. Month six, we turned an actual profit.
I flipped the sign to “Closed” and locked it. The gallery could wait. The world could wait.
I took the stairs two at a time.
Our apartment was small, converted from what used to be storage space, all exposed brick and original hardwood. Themain room served as a living room, kitchen, and studio space, with a tiny bedroom barely big enough for the bed and a bathroom that required strategic maneuvering.
Cord stood at the sink, filling a glass with water, still in the button-down and slacks he wore for broadcasts. His hair was mussed, tie loosened, jacket draped over the back of a chair.
He turned when he heard me, and the smile that spread across his face made my chest ache.
“Hey,” he said.
“You're early.” I crossed to him, hands already reaching for his waist. “I thought Austin wasn't done until Friday.”
“Finished the last segment this morning. Couldn't stand being away anymore.” His arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too.” I buried my face against his neck, breathing him in. Three weeks. Too long.
His hands slid under my shirt, warm against my skin. “How'd the interview go?”
“Fine. She wanted to understand the curatorial vision. Asked good questions.” I pulled back to look at him. “You could've called. I would've wrapped it up faster.”
“Didn't want to interrupt.” His thumb brushed my jaw. “Besides, gave me time to unpack. Put groceries away. Start dinner.”
I glanced at the stove where a pot was already simmering, filling the small space with the smell of garlic and tomatoes. “You drove six hours and started cooking?”
“Wanted everything ready when you came up.” He kissed me, soft. “Thought we could have dinner later. Much later.”
Heat pooled low in my belly. “How much later?”
“However long it takes.” His hands slid lower, gripping my hips. “I've got weeks of missing you to work through.”
I kissed him harder this time, months of practice teaching me what he liked—firm pressure, slow exploration, the promise of more. His mouth opened under mine, tongue sliding against my tongue as his hands gripped on my hips.
We moved toward the bedroom, shedding clothes between kisses. His shirt hit the floor, then mine. Belt buckles jingling as we worked them open, jeans pushed down and kicked away.
The bedroom was barely big enough for the bed, afternoon light streaming through the single window. We fell onto the mattress together, my weight settling over him in a way that was like coming home.
“God, I missed this,” he breathed against my throat. “Missed you. Three weeks is too long.”
“Way too long.” My hands mapped the familiar territory of his chest, feeling the slight ridge of surgical scars under my palm, healed now, barely visible, but I knew where to find them. Evidence of the gamble that had paid off, the choice that had brought him here.
