Page 107 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“No.”

“Leave before I get a whiteboard.”

I left.

Outside, the city was in full motion. People hurried past with coffees and the haunted expressions of those who had also chosen employment over sleep. I made it half a block before I pulled out my phone again.

I didn’t text back, but I did read his message again.

I have no knowledge of fairy activity in your building.

Ridiculous man.

Ridiculous, thoughtful, off-limits man.

Putting my phone away, I squared my shoulders and continued on, reminding myself that free office coffee awaited and that butterflies, like emails from partners, could be acknowledged without being obeyed.

By the time I made it to Payton & Wallace, I’d achieved the kind of exhaustion that made fluorescent lighting feel intrusive.

I slipped through the revolving door, already digging in my tote for my badge, and tried to arrange my face into something that said rested professional instead of woman who had slept four hours and developed inappropriate tenderness toward a repaired door latch. Everyone moved with brisk, caffeinated purpose. Which made sense, since they billed in six-minute intervals.

My phone sat in my pocket like a tiny criminal.

I hadn’t texted Rafe back.

This wasn’t maturity. This was strategy. Also fear. Also the knowledge that if I replied with anything even slightly flirty, I would have to walk into the office afterward and make copies while my skeleton tried to leave my body.

So. Silence. Controlled. No, not that word. Restrained.

Also, I’d forgotten to eat breakfast.

The elevator opened on my floor, and I stepped out into familiar noise: phones ringing, printers revving up like small angry engines, someone laughing too loudly near the conference rooms, the coffee machine making a sound that suggested internal suffering. I’d taken exactly three steps toward the intern bullpen when Moira appeared from the left at a speed usually reserved for emergency medical personnel and women spotting a celebrity in sweatpants.

“Oh my god,” she said.

I stopped. “Good morning?”

She grabbed my elbow and pulled me toward the alcove by the copy room. “Is it true?”

“That depends entirely on which version has reached you.”

“The version where you went to the gala with the dragon client, a retired military dog, and the boldness of a woman who has never feared death.”

“I fear death. I just fear student loan interest more.”

Moira’s eyes widened. “So it is true.”

“If by true you mean ‘did we secure a follow-up meeting with Dr. Georgiana Sorel for Friday morning’, then yes.”

She made a strangled sound that forced several heads to peer over their cubicles.

I lowered my voice. “Moira.”

“Friday morning,” she whispered, vibrating in place. “With Georgiana Sorel.”

“Potentially with Elaine and the collections counsel as well.”

“Quinn.”