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She prayed Niall would forgive her blundering demand to restore additional pieces. She’d stolen his time. Her grand idea of extra restoration work for Peter was another kind of theft, because she was arrogantly making Niall’s choices for him. She stifled a groan. His father’s debts were real, whereas she’d worked out hers were childhood nightmares that should have lost their power to dictate her actions.

“I’m not your financial adviser, but I’m prepared to consider hypotheticals.” From Hunter, that was capitulation.

“I can do hypotheticals.” Lifting her chair, she carried it around to his side of the table, bringing the folder with her. “Let’s say someone has taken out a loan for a few hundred thousand dollars for two years with repayments of roughly fifteen thousand a month.”

To his credit, he didn’t blink. “What’d you spend the money on?”

“Most of it is sitting in the business bank account.”I’m an idiot. Or an orphan paralysed by loss. “Twelve months operating costs, staff salaries and benefits, quarterly utilities, an allocation for buying new product, marketing—"

His hand covered hers on the table. “You don’t need me to tell you anything.”

“I need someone”—she paused—“knowledgeable, and not in a relationship with me, to remind me of what I spent years learning. I could have taken a smaller loan, brought the spring gala forward, and the normal cash flow would have serviced that loan.”

“What are you going to do about it?” He leaned back in his chair.

“Renegotiate the loan.”And beg Niall’s forgiveness.

* * *

Niall had waited untilthe last possible moment to ring the influential gallery owner.Hoping for a miracle? He pocketed his phone and buried his head in his hands, the woman’s final words ringing in his ears.

“Don’t expect another chance in this city.”

She was pissed off, and with reason. She’d have to shuffle other exhibitions, change timelines, and it would cost her. More in time and effort than actual money. He’d given her enough notice to cancel the bulk of her promotional activity and agreed to pay any existing out-of-pocket expenses.

“You’re a fool.” Her anger-laden description lay curdling in his belly. “Wasting the best chance you’re likely to get.”

Decisions had consequences.Well, feck, I know that. He raised his head, elbows on his knees, and scanned his workroom.

He called Lucy, infusing his voice with regret and good humour. “Something’s come up. I can’t make it tonight.” He was no kind of company tonight.

“Of course.” Her ready acceptance sparked a different kind of unease. But his mind was a blank. Words dried in his mouth.

The wind-tossed path meandering along the headland above Watsons Bay suited his mood. Stars were pinpricks in a dark-sky-quilt above an even darker sea. No moon, but the lamps lighting his path danced shadows all around him, and white tops coated the waves. His head was packed with shadows tonight.

He’d thought he had plenty of time to make his mark.

Nest eggs were for old men.

In his early twenties, he’d never bothered about making money, because he was too intent on learning his craft. He’d accepted food and board on more than one occasion to work alongside someone with a new skill to offer. He’d given pieces to fellow artisans, who’d admired them but lacked the funds to pay even for his labour.

After meeting his ex-fiancée, Sinead, in Dublin, he’d started to put money aside. Not enough, so when he’d let a friend have a piece at cost, Sinead had gone ballistic. His art had held him in a mad lover’s chokehold, she’d claimed, her contempt wild and mean. He was earning peanuts when she had a right to a little luxury. He’d walked away from everything he’d built in Ireland, a fire-sale of belongings. In a desperate act of “you can’t hurt me,” he’d flown his tools back to Australia first-class freight.

And found a different failure confronting him at home. If he’d had any kind of forethought, he’d have had a bit put by—for Sinead, to pay Liam, to be able to say “thanks, but no thanks” to Cam.

A pub loomed out of the darkness. Music spilled through the door. The smell of fried potatoes mixed with the salt spray, a quintessential Australian scent, beckoned. Through the picture windows, he could see the happy crowd, chatting or dancing or sneaking kisses in corners. Turning his back on the wind, he retraced his path to his vehicle.

If he’d been any kind of provider, he’d be able to access the money to bankroll Lucy until she’d regained her confidence. Folding forward onto his arms across the steering wheel, he shifted through possibilities. One skill he’d mastered was starting with nothing. He could do it again.

This time he had more than nothing. Liam’s debt was almost paid. He could help select the first scholarship winner for Cam’s foundation, finish the work he’d agreed to do for Peter and Lucy. He’d surrender the workshop at the end of his original contract with Cam, and Lucy could sell it. He’d explain the situation, ask for the year to sell what he had in storage, to make more, to actively promote his work, to make himself a viable mentor.

Ask Lucy to give him—them—time.

* * *

Lucy tucked her phoneback in her pocket. Niall had sounded ... “off” in the call, despondent. Hearing the uncharacteristic defeat in his voice scraped at her conscience. She needed her girlfriends, and Kelly was finally back in town.

Thirty minutes later, Lucy walked into a bistro she hadn’t been in for months and was directed to a table tucked in a corner. “Thanks.” Two women rose at her approach. She hugged one first then the other.