Page 127 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

She frowned at it. “Are you feeding me now?”

“Your lunch was a mint. You need to be fed.”

“It was a good mint.”

“Quinn.”

She took the fruit. “Fine. But I’m only doing this for the client.”

“The client appreciates your sacrifice.”

She smiled down at the container, and for once the humor didn’t entirely hide the pleasure. “The client has excellent strawberries.”

“I’ll be sure to tell the kitchen.”

“Please don’t. I don’t want anyone knowing I can be bought with fruit.”

“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m discreet.”

“You are many things, Virelli. Discreet is hit or miss.”

I should have objected, but as I watched her eat a strawberry, I found myself wishing, irrationally, that I had thought to ask what she liked before requesting my staff prepare something.

The drive stretched on.

The city thinned into suburbs, then into wider roads lined with trees just beginning to deepen toward summer. Quinn grew quieter as the buildings fell away. Not sleepy, though I could tell she was tired. Her attention moved from the roadside houses to stone walls, fields, streams bright beneath narrow bridges. At one point, we passed a nursery with rows of young trees in black pots, and she leaned closer to the window.

“Look at those Japanese maples,” she said. “They’re charging city prices for country trees. Bold.”

“You know tree pricing?”

“I know enough to resent it.”

“Is that based on expertise or principle?”

“Both. My entire personality is bargain-based outrage.”

Max shifted in the back and sighed.

Quinn glanced at him immediately, her hand settling near his shoulder. Her fingers moved once through the fur behind his ear, and he relaxed again.

She noticed so much. That was one of the problems.

I had told myself this trip was for Max, and that was still true. The dog needed space, and I knew a place that could provide it. The property belonged to an old family friend who maintained private acreage for conservation work and the occasional Olden Folk gathering far from curious human eyes. There were fields, trails, a stream, and a wide clearing ringed by old trees. Perfect for a dog who needed quiet and space.

Still, the question sat in me as the van turned off the main road.

Why was I adjusting my day around Quinn Bradley and her dog?

The auction was tomorrow. The mirror mattered. The sword issue remained open. There were documents to review and calls to make. And yet I had left the city on a Saturday afternoon because an elderly dog put his head in Quinn’s lap and she had looked tired in a way I disliked.

The answer, if I let it become simple, would be inconvenient.

So, I made it complicated instead.

Max was useful to the case. Quinn was useful to the case. Maintaining their effectiveness was prudent. Her insight had improved favorable outcomes twice already. The dog’s comfort affected hers. Therefore, this was strategic.

It was a miserable argument that would break under the faintest prodding.