“I’ve worked ahead on my next deadline, but I’ll have to establish a new routine soon.” He pushed off from the railing. “Now you know the background.”

Their conversation must be over.

Christi rose. “I appreciate you sharing all this with me.”

“Like I said, I didn’t want you coming to the wrong conclusions about my character.”

“Why not?” The question spilled past her lips.

He folded his arms, adopting his intimidating cop stance again. “My dad always said a person’s reputation was everything. That matters to me.”

“I don’t disagree—but I’m surprised you care what I think.”

His brow crimped, and a few beats passed. “I don’t so much care what you think as what you might say.”

As his inference registered, she clutched her purse tighter. “You really think I’d bad-mouth you or spread insinuations?”

“You want the truth? I don’t know what to think. But in light of past experience, my trust level with you isn’t super high.”

The knot below her rib cage tightened.

His assessment was harsh—but deserved in light of their history. Even if the woman she’d been when he’d formed his opinions had ceased to exist.

“Understood.” She rummaged through her purse for her keys. “If you have any more issues with the sweater, let me know. If I can’t fix it, I’ll find someone who can.”

She stepped off the porch and walked toward her car.

“Christi.”

At his summons, she paused. Angled back.

“Thank you for your help tonight.”

“No problem. I know what it’s like to have your world implode.”

Without waiting for a response, she continued down the walk to her car. She didn’t look back until she was behind the wheel and the car was in gear.

Jack was walking in the direction of the laundry room, perhaps to reclaim the rest of his items from the dryer. He didn’t give her another glance.

Spirits tanking, she pressed on the accelerator and drove away.

It was bad enough that his opinion of her hadn’t budged. That no matter how contrite she was, no matter how much she’d changed, he couldn’t find it in his heart to recognize that—or forgive her.

Even worse, though? If his trust level was as low as he claimed, the odds of him giving her the loan she’d pinned her hopes on were slim to none—and Tasha’s dream would have to be put on hold.

All because, once again, she’d messed up back in Dallas . . . and left carnage in her wake.

15

“This is it, Noah. The studio of world-famous artist Charley Lopez.” Steve drove past the modest clapboard cottage and parked by the weathered wood structure fifty yards behind that overlooked the sea, a large expanse of glass covering the top half of the outbuilding’s north wall.