Page 122 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Rafe and Max looked at each other. “I’ll come.”

“Oh.” My heart did a humiliating cartwheel. “Okay.”

Rafe handed the shopping bag to his driver. “We’ll walk.”

The driver didn’t react. Rafe’s staff seemed to have been trained for impossible things like “the dragon has elected to visit a public dog park after buying an intern clothing.”

The dog park was narrow but well-maintained, tucked between two buildings with trees shading one end and benches worn smooth by years of exhausted owners. A pair of terriers argued near the gate. A gray poodle in a red harness ignored everyone with the serenity of inherited wealth. Max waited patiently while I unclipped his leash.

“Frei,” I said, then he stepped into the main run and shook himself.

Rafe watched him. “He changes.”

“Off duty,” I said. “Sort of. He’s never fully off, but this is as close as he gets.”

I pulled a tennis ball from Max’s bag. It was battered and missing fuzz in one spot, which only made Max love it more. Before I could throw, Rafe held out his hand.

“May I?”

“You want to throw the ball?”

“Yes.”

I handed it over. “Be careful. If you throw badly, he’ll know.”

“I am unlikely to throw badly.”

“Mm. Max will be the judge of that.”

Rafe stepped forward, studied the length of the dog run, then threw the ball. It sailed cleanly over the heads of two confused spaniels and landed near the far fence.

Delighted, Max launched after it.

I stared.

Rafe’s mouth curved and a real grin broke through, quick and pleased, and it did absolutely obscene things to his face. He looked younger. Almost boyish, if a man could be boyish while wearing a coat that probably had its own insurance policy.

“Well,” I said faintly. “That was rude.”

He glanced at me, still grinning. “Rude?”

“Some of us have been throwing with mortal arms for years.”

“I can throw softer.”

I narrowed my eyes playfully. “Don’t patronize my limitations.”

Max returned with the ball, tail high, eyes bright. He dropped it at Rafe’s shoes instead of mine.

“Wow,” I said. “I feed you.”

Max looked unapologetic.

Rafe picked up the ball. “He respects ability.”

I crossed my arms, pretending to sulk. “Hmph.”

He threw it again, and Max bounded after it with an enthusiasm that made my chest ache in the best way. He was older now, slower to rise in the mornings and careful on the stairs. But when he ran, I got a glimpse of the dog he must have been before retirement, before my life had become organized around his pills and his diet and the way he slept best with one paw pressed against my ankle.