“Yes.” No hesitation in her agreement—and the subtle tightening of her features was telling. “But as a dear friend told me, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I did check out the legal firm in Portland that handles the owner’s business. It has a stellar reputation. I also had the locks rekeyed.”

“Do you have any clue who owns this place?”

“No.”

Neither did he. None of his queries into renting or buying the cottage had revealed the owner’s identity, and he’d had no legal justification—or right—to probe deeper. Still didn’t.

He handed her the papers. “Everything appears to be in order.” Even if her presence was going to add exponentially to the chaos in his life.

“Good.”

Official business finished, he shifted gears. “I have another question.”

“Okay.” Caution underscored her tentative agreement.

“Why are you moving here?”

“I was offered a job—beyond watching over this place.”

“Where?”

“A shop called Eye of the Beholder, on Main Street.”

“Beth Adams’s place.”

“You know her?”

“It’s a small town. Don’t you have a job in Dallas?”

She played with the edge of the document, and when she continued, her voice was softer. Sadder. “Not anymore. The place where I worked went out of business, and there was nothing holding me there except one close friend.”

His jaw tightened. “The same friend who gave you the gift horse advice?”

“Yes. Leaving her will be hard.”

Her.

The tension in his shoulders dissipated—for reasons he refused to consider.

“But she’s the only one there I care about—or who cares about me.” As Christi continued, she fingered the corner of the agreement she’d signed. “I felt more at home here in the first twenty-four hours than I ever felt in Dallas. People have gone above and beyond to be gracious and welcoming. Most people, anyway.” She gave him a quick peek, then dropped her gaze again.

Guilt jabbed at his conscience—which was ridiculous. He owed Christi nothing. Not welcome. Not graciousness. And not a loan.

Next order of business.

She lifted her head as he opened his mouth to give her the bad news—but at the deep-seated weariness and defeat in the depths of her eyes, he snapped it closed again.

Gone was the frivolous, flirty, self-centered party girl he’d once known, whose shallow quest for constant fun he’d mistaken for exuberant joie de vivre.

This was a woman who’d been through the wringer. Who’d been knocked down and was struggling to regain her footing. Who’d lost the life she’d once known and been thrust into a strange, new world where no one waited on her, money was in short supply, and holey socks were the norm.

How could he strike one more blow that might knock her off-balance permanently? Who knew how close she was to a precipice?