“Morning.” I brushed a strand of hair from his face. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in days.” He stretched, careful not to jostle my shoulder, then settled back against me. “What time is it?”
“Just past eight.” I pressed a kiss to his temple. “No rush. I don't fly out until this afternoon.”
The reminder of my departure hung between us. Instead of acknowledging it, Dusty traced lazy patterns on my chest, his touch sending warmth through my body despite everything we probably needed to talk about. Despite whatever he'd been holding back last night.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.”
We moved slow, neither of us wanting to leave the bubble we'd created. Dusty pulled on his clothes from last night while I found sweats and a t-shirt, both of us dancing around each other in the small space with the easy familiarity that comes from sharing more than just sex.
Room service delivered breakfast with their usual discretion—fresh fruit, eggs, toast, coffee that smelled like heaven. We settled at the small table by the window overlooking the courtyard, and for a few minutes everything felt simple. Normal. Like maybe this could actually work.
Except it couldn't. Not with whatever weight Dusty was carrying.
I watched him push eggs around his plate, not really eating. The tight set of his shoulders, the way he kept starting to say something and then stopping. Last night I'd let it slide, too caught up in having him here, in touching him again. But in the morning light, I couldn't ignore what I was seeing.
“So,” I said finally. “You going to tell me what's really going on? Something with your family?”
His fork stilled. “Everyone's fine. Physically.”
“But?”
Dusty took a breath, and I watched him struggle with something internal. Pride warring with the need to tell someone what had happened. When he finally spoke, the words came out rushed, like he needed to get them out before he lost his nerve.
“Jake took my money. The gallery money. All of it.”
The sentence didn't make sense at first. “What?”
“Sam had access to my bank accounts, the ones I had for the gallery, in case expenses came up and I was unreachable.” His jaw clenched. “Jake somehow saw it sitting there and thought he could multiply it. Crypto, day trading. Classic gambling addiction shit.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.” The number came out flat, controlled. “Seven years. Gone in a week.”
The number hit me like a blindside sack. Seven years of work, of saving every dollar, of saying no to things he wanted. Gone because his brother couldn't control himself. This was why he'd been so distant last night. This was what he'd been carrying alone.
“Fuck, Dusty. I'm so sorry.”
“I've already called the realtor, the artists.” His hands clenched around his fork. “It's over.”
My mind was already moving, calculating. Two hundred thousand was significant but manageable. I had money fromcontracts, investments Ruben had set up. Maybe if I took the Pittsburgh job, signed the contract immediately... This was fixable.
“I can give you the money.”
The change in his expression was immediate. Walls slamming up, jaw tightening. That easy warmth from this morning gone like someone had flipped a switch.
“No.”
“Dusty, it's not—”
“I said no.” He stood, grabbing his plate even though he'd barely touched his food.
“Just listen for a second—”
“I don't need you to save me, Cord.” He moved to the kitchenette, his back to me, shoulders rigid.
