Chapter Eighteen
Cord
I woke to find Dusty already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me with an expression that made my heart stop. Morning light filtered through the windows, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, across his bare shoulder, across the soft smile playing at his lips.
“How long have you been awake?” My voice came out rough with sleep.
“A while.” His finger traced the line of my collarbone, feather-light and intimate. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how we spent yesterday afternoon wrapped up in each other instead of being practical and planning.” His smile widened. “And how I don't regret a single minute of it.”
Yesterday was like a dream, finding each other again after weeks apart, reconnecting in ways that went beyond physical. We'd made love twice more, ordered room service we barely touched, talked until our voices grew hoarse.
“Best use of an afternoon I can think of.” I pulled him down for a kiss.
When we broke apart, he settled against my chest, fitting there like he belonged. Outside, The Ranch was waking up.
“We should probably be productive today,” Dusty murmured against my skin. “Actually sign those partnership papers.”
“Probably.” I ran my fingers through his hair, still mussed from sleep. “But not yet.”
We stayed like that for another few minutes, just breathing together. The partnership documents waited on the coffee table, untouched in favor of more important reconnections.
We showered together, less about sex and more about the intimacy of washing each other's backs, sharing space, the casual domesticity of it. Then made coffee and ordered breakfast from room service.
“So,” I said as we settled at the small dining table with eggs and toast. “Vincent said we could use his office to call the lawyer. Ready to make this official?”
Dusty picked up the partnership agreement, papers creased from being carried around yesterday. “Yeah. Let's do this.”
Vincent's smile when we walked into his office told me he'd already clocked the way Cord and I were holding hands. That knowing, pleased expression of his, the one that said he'd orchestrated this exact outcome. He probably had.
His only objection had been to me taking two weeks off.
“Consider your contract for the season fulfilled, I won’t hear any argument about it.
You’ve given us years of great service, and there’s nothing more that I want than success for you both.
” He winked. “And maybe some new artwork for my bedroom, when you find the time.”
After Vincent set up his laptop for a video conference with Cord's lawyer, he stepped out to give us privacy. I picked up the partnership agreement Gail's attorney had drafted, fingers tracing the letterhead.
“Fifty-fifty profit split,” he read aloud. “After operational expenses.”
“Yeah.” I pulled the financial projections closer. “These are conservative estimates—renovation costs, operational expenses, projected revenue.”
He studied the numbers, blue eyes moving across columns of carefully calculated figures. “Why partnership, Cord? You could structure this as an investment, take a smaller percentage, less personal risk—”
“Because I don't want to be your investor.” The words came easily now, shaped by weeks of thinking about how to say this right. “You told me I was trying to fix you instead of listening. You were right.”
Dusty’s jaw tightened, an acknowledgment of that fight, of the hurt that had driven us apart.
“This isn't me fixing your problem,” I continued. “It's me asking if you want to build something together. You manage the gallery, handle curation, work with artists. I handle business operations, finances, legal stuff. Equal partners.”
His eyes widened as he read through my projections. “You really thought about this.”
“Remember at the cabin when the roof leaked? How we worked together to fix it? We were good at that, figuring things out as a team.”
Something softened in his expression, warmth replacing wariness.
“What if it fails?” His voice was quieter now. “The business, I mean.”
“Then we have a partnership agreement that protects both of us. We pivot, adjust, find new approaches.”
Dusty was quiet, fingers drumming softly against the glass table. “I'd need creative control over the gallery. Artist selection, curation, presentation.”
“That's your expertise. I wouldn't dream of overriding it.”
“And involvement in business decisions. Real involvement, not just being told what you've decided.”
“That's what partnership means. We make major decisions together.” I smiled. “Though I'm handling contractor negotiations solo. That's boring as hell.”
That earned me a small smile. “Deal.”
I turned Vincent's laptop toward us and opened up the video conference with Gail. “Gail, I've got you on speaker. Dusty Miller is here with me. We've reviewed everything. We're ready to move forward.”
“Excellent. Have you both signed the partnership agreement?”
We looked at each other. Dusty reached for the pen, and I watched him sign his name in neat, careful script, each letter deliberate, significant. Then I signed below his signature.
“Done,” I said.
“Perfect. Scan those documents and email them to me, and I'll contact the realtor this morning with your formal offer. You should hear back within forty-eight hours.”
After we ended the meeting, we sat in silence. The partnership agreement lay between us, our signatures binding us together.
“We're really doing this,” Dusty said softly.
“We really are.”
Back in my suite, packing took ten minutes. I'd only arrived yesterday with a single duffel bag. Everything fit easily, leaving me with hours before meeting Dusty at the studio.
The main courtyard glowed in afternoon sunlight, Mexican pavers still holding warmth despite the autumn chill.
We were a week away from Thanksgiving, but someone had already started stringing Christmas lights and candy canes along the pergola, and I had to laugh—a little early, even for The Ranch's enthusiasm.
The hot tubs were occupied—clusters of men enjoying the heated mineral water. In the largest tub, a tech CEO I'd seen on magazine covers had his head thrown back while two companions worked him over beneath the bubbling water. His face showed pure bliss, surrendered.
Near the hot tubs, several guests lounged on heated daybeds, companions draped nearby like beautiful accessories. One man had a young companion straddling his lap, grinding slowly while hands mapped the companion's lean torso.
A companion catching my eye smiled, an invitation clear in the curve of his lips, the way he shifted to show off his body. Beautiful, skilled, exactly what I would have wanted when I first arrived here.
I smiled back but kept walking. He was just another attractive man now, pleasant to look at but holding zero interest.
Past the hot tubs, the private cabanas were occupied. Gauzy curtains billowed in the November breeze, backlit by sunlight that cast moving shadows. In one, I glimpsed multiple figures intertwined, their movements slow and languid. Soft moans drifted out, mixed with breathless laughter.
Near the outdoor showers, a man stood under the rainfall showerhead, water cascading over his muscular body while another kneeled before him. The first man's hands were fisted in his companion's hair, face blissful.
Beautiful. Erotic. Uninteresting.
Everything here was extraordinary: carefully curated, expertly maintained, designed to fulfill fantasies most people wouldn't admit to having. The Ranch was a masterpiece of hedonism.
And I was walking away from it.
Not because it wasn't beautiful. It was. But because everything here felt like background noise to the one thing that mattered.
Because waiting for me was someone who'd seen me at my worst—panicking, medicated, barely holding it together—and had chosen to help anyway.
Someone who looked at me and saw Cordero, the man who liked drawing buildings and cooking complicated meals.
Not just the quarterback, not just the wealthy client.
I reached the yoga studio just as the afternoon light began shifting toward evening. Through the windows, I could see Dusty inside, kneeling beside a box.
This was what I was choosing. Not endless variety, not consequence-free pleasure, not the fantasy world where money bought anything. Just him. Just us. Just the possibility of building something that mattered.
Dusty was packing his office when I walked in.
“Need help?” I asked.
He looked up, and his smile was worth everything. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Sketches covered the walls—studies of hands and feet, faces caught mid-expression, bodies in motion.
And there, tucked in the corner—more sketches of me.
Me sleeping that first morning at the cabin.
Me reading by the creek. My hands, detailed studies of knuckles and tendons.
Some I'd seen before, but not all of them.
"There’s so many. I didn't know you drew this many," I said, voice rough.
"I draw everyone who matters."
“Can I keep this one?”
“They're all yours if you want them.” He gathered them carefully. “I can't sell them. They're too personal.”
A knock on the doorframe made us both turn. Ibrahim stood there, impeccable in tailored white leather despite the afternoon chill.
“Dustin,” he said. “May I come in?”
Ibrahim moved into the room with fluid grace. “I remember the day we hired you. Vincent called me from that yoga class in Austin, insistent he'd found someone special.”
“You came to see me teach,” Dusty said softly. “Watched the whole class without saying a word.”
“I wanted to understand what Vincent saw. By the end, I understood. You weren't just teaching poses. You were creating space for people to be vulnerable, to discover themselves through movement.”
“I tried.”
“You succeeded.” Ibrahim moved closer. “You were planning to leave around this time anyway. The gallery, the new chapter. This is a different path than expected.”
“A very different path,” Dusty agreed, voice rough.