Chapter 17
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, more responsibility.
“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.
“What is this?” I looked up at him, afraid to hope.
“What I've been working on since the ESPN interview. Every free minute between broadcasting gigs and physical therapy.” He gestured to the iPad.
“I hired a business attorney, worked with a financial advisor.
Learned about commercial real estate, partnership structures, how to run a gallery and guest house.
This isn't me throwing money at your problem. This is a real business plan.”
“But first, I need to say something.” He set down the iPad, his expression growing serious. “I fucked up with that money offer. I treated you like a problem to solve instead of a partner to respect. You deserved better than my checkbook solving everything.”
He ran his hands through his hair, agitation making his movements sharp. “You'd spent seven years building your independence, proving you could create something meaningful on your own. And I waltzed in trying to fix it all with money like some rich asshole who thinks cash solves everything.”
He stepped closer, and I could see the regret written in every line of his face. “You deserved someone who understood what you'd built, what it meant to you. Someone who wanted to be your equal, not your savior.”
“Cord—”
“I spent the last three weeks learning about gallery operations, market analysis, partnership structures.” His voice grew stronger, more certain.
“Not because I thought you needed saving, but because I wanted to be worthy of being your partner. Your actual partner, not your investor. Someone who could contribute something real instead of just writing checks.”
The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. “You did all that research...”
“Because you matter. Because what you're building matters. And because I wanted to show up as someone you could respect, not just someone with money to throw around.”
I swallowed hard, my hand shaking as I scrolled through the document. Spreadsheets, architectural renderings, market research. Professional, thorough, nothing like the impulsive offer he'd made before.
“Why guest house?” My voice came out rough.
“Because Marfa needs quality lodging for art tourists. The gallery brings them in, the guest house gives them reason to stay, spend more in town.” He pulled out a chair, sat across from me.
“And because you're good at creating spaces where people feel seen.
You've been doing it for seven years. This just makes it official.”
I kept scrolling. Equal ownership. Equal decision-making. Me managing gallery operations and curation, him handling business development and guest house management until I was ready to expand my role.
“The partnership has an exit clause,” he said. “Either of us can buy out the other's share at fair market value within the first two years. No hard feelings, clean separation. I'm not trying to trap you.”
“You learned all this since the interview?”
“Had excellent motivation.” His eyes held mine. “And I wanted to show you I wasn't trying to fix you. I wanted to be worthy of being your partner.”
The words cracked something open in my chest. I set down the iPad before I dropped it.
“You're moving to Texas,” I said. It wasn't a question—I'd heard him say it in the interview. “For real.”
“Marfa, if you say yes. Austin if you say no. There's an ESPN affiliate there either way.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I want to build something real, Dusty. And I want to build it with you, if you'll let me.”
I stared at the business plan, at weeks of work he'd done to show me this wasn't charity. This was partnership.
“Can you show me everything?” I heard myself say. “All of it?”
Relief flooded his expression.
We spent the next hour going through every detail.
Market analysis for Marfa's art tourism—he'd researched comparable galleries in similar markets, tracked foot traffic patterns, analyzed seasonal variations.
The renovation budget broke down every expense: electrical upgrades, HVAC, plumbing, ADA compliance.
Staffing plans accounted for gallery attendants, housekeeping for the guest rooms, maintenance.
He was gesturing with both hands now, the careful movements gone as he got excited about vaulted ceilings and natural light and sight lines for displaying art. This wasn't someone who'd skimmed a few articles. This was someone who'd learned.
“The guest house revenue stabilizes the gallery income,” he continued, swiping to a financial projection.
“Art sales are unpredictable, especially starting out.
But lodging in Marfa is consistent, especially during peak tourist season.
It gives us runway to build the gallery's reputation without panicking about monthly expenses.”
“You thought of everything.”
“I had help. My financial advisor Gail, the business attorney, Kendon connected me with a real estate specialist who knows West Texas.” He paused. “But the vision is yours, Dusty. I just figured out how to make it sustainable.”
I looked at the renderings again. He'd captured what I'd been imagining, the way light would fall on the gallery walls, the courtyard that could host openings and small events, and even added a new twist with the guest rooms. Wow.
“I need to think,” I said. “Not long. Just... give me a minute. Alone.”
Understanding flickered across his face. “Of course. I can wait outside—”
“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?”