“It wasn’t hard. The author bio said you lived in the Pacific Northwest. That narrowed the search—and the internet is an amazing tool. I didn’t find any mention of a wife who might object to a loan, and I know your family is gone. I figured a New York Times bestseller would have the financial resources to help me.”

A common misperception. She may have researched him, but she hadn’t done her homework on author income.

“A bestselling book sounds more impressive than it is. In general, you have to write them consistently to get rich. Most authors have day jobs.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” However, the stellar performance of his first novel had led to significant income far beyond his advance. And the lucrative three-book contract that had followed would provide a cozy cushion for his future unless he decided to live the high life—which was not in his plans.

But he didn’t have to share any of that with Christi.

Some of the color leeched from her cheeks. “I knew you might refuse because you didn’t want to help me, but I never thought it would be because you couldn’t.” She rubbed her temple, her tension almost palpable.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Yeah, he had—and a man in his profession shouldn’t shade the truth.

“My book’s done well—and more are coming.” He left it at that. “Why do you need such a large sum of money?”

“I have an obligation to fulfill.”

The two seagulls stood and waddled closer, watching the human drama with their unblinking avian eyes.

Weird.

Why weren’t they heckling tourists for handouts or hanging around the fishing boats in the harbor like normal gulls?

“I’m sorry you have financial issues.” The comment was perfunctory at best. Her mess wasn’t his problem. “But you were always adept at getting what you wanted. I imagine that skill will see you through this crisis.”

Her lips quivered. “I don’t have anywhere else to turn, Jack. If I did, I wouldn’t be here. You were my last hope.”

Were.

Past tense.

He didn’t much like the sound of that. Desperate people could take desperate actions.

But again—not his problem.

He took another step back. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

One of the gulls at his feet fluttered its wings, gave him a beady-eyed stare, and emitted a raucous squawk that sounded like a rebuke.

He stifled a snort. As if seagulls were capable of such a reaction. No doubt the bird was hoping for a scrap from his fish tacos. A handout.

Kind of like what the woman across from him was after.

They were both out of luck.

Christi’s shoulders slumped, and dejection radiated from her. “I knew the odds were against me, but I didn’t have anything to lose by asking except gas money.”