Jack had to muster up every ounce of his willpower to hold his ground. This was none of his business. If Christi wanted to work here, that was up to her.

But she doesn’t. You know that, Colby.

Yeah, he did. This scene didn’t fit the St. Louis Christi, nor did it fit the Christi who’d shown up in Hope Harbor a week ago.

She was here for the money. Period. No matter how uncomfortable it made her.

And she didn’t have to be. All he had to do was give her the loan she’d driven two thousand miles to request in a desperate bid to repay an obligation.

But if he caved, a business deal would link them together for the foreseeable future—and how much interaction did he want to have with the woman who’d made mincemeat of his heart?

The truth?

Too much.

He exhaled and scraped a hand down his face.

Like it or not, that was the reality. There was something intriguing—and appealing—about this new version of Christi. And the temptation to find out how much of that elusive something was real versus feigned was strong.

Given the package that had arrived in his mail mere days ago, however—and the ensuing complications—getting tangled up with Christi in either a business or personal capacity would be a mistake. He had a finite amount of time and energy, and between his police work, his writing commitments, and a surprise daughter, his plate was full.

Christi would have to fend for herself.

Yet as he tracked down Greg, passed on his best wishes, and retraced his route to the front door, he found himself scanning the room for one last glimpse of her.

No luck. She’d vanished.

Was she busy in another part of the bar—or doing her best to walk a wide circle around him?

Impossible to know.

A chilly wind whipped past as he stepped out into the night air, and he flipped up the collar of his jacket. Strode toward his Jeep. In forty minutes, he’d be home and getting ready for his night shift.

Once behind the wheel, he surveyed the parking lot, where several groups of young studs had congregated.

Scowled.

As far as he knew, there’d never been any serious incidents at this place. But would these guys—or others like them—be hanging around when Christi got off work? Would she have to run the gauntlet—alone—to get to her car? What if she encountered trouble?

But that wasn’t his problem. Not unless he made it his problem. And he had plenty of his own without taking on someone else’s.

He twisted the key in the ignition. Backed out of his spot. Pointed the Jeep south. And drove a tad too fast toward Hope Harbor.