Page 43 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

My jaw tightened. My reaction was irrational and immediate, which didn’t make it any less real. I didn’t want her kneeling at James Payton’s chair for any reason.

“I’m fine,” James said.

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said, her face now the color of professional death.

A drop of coffee slid from the edge of the table to the carpet. No one acknowledged it. This was, I suspected, how civilization functioned.

Peter coughed to hide what was either horror or laughter.

I watched the color rise in Quinn’s face. Mortification, certainly. And under it, something steadier. She was embarrassed, yes. But she wasn’t retreating.

Interesting, again.

James straightened at last, abandoning the napkins with the grim practicality of a man accepting partial defeat.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. The suit isn’t ruined. Ms. Bradley, next time you’re overcome by the majesty of client-facing work, do try not to baptize the partnership.”

Quinn nodded with terrible seriousness. “Yes, sir.”

Helena stood. “Good. Then it’s settled. Moira, you’ll take point. Peter, prepare the event brief and museum background. Ms. Bradley will attend the event.”

After that, the meeting turned to logistics and schedules. But the structure of the room had shifted. Quinn returned to the edge of it, yes, but no longer as background. Every person there was now accounting for her. She wasn’t just the coffee-spilling intern anymore, but person who had seen the line of attack the rest of them had missed and had enough nerve to speak it aloud.

No, I thought. She wasn’t stupid.

She was much more interesting than that.

As the meeting ended, I decided I needed to speak with Quinn Bradley about the gala. That seemed preferable to allowing the law firm to make assumptions on my behalf and then bill for them.

People began collecting their papers, eager to appear indispensable elsewhere, and Quinn stacked the empty cups onto a cardboard tray.

“Ms. Bradley,” I said.

She looked up at once. There was still a touch too much color in her face from the coffee incident, though she’d otherwise regained composure.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’d like a word.”

A slight pause, then she set the tray down on the sideboard and came toward me. She was cautious now, which made sense, since she’d already had one spectacular professional mishap before lunch. “Of course.”

I waited until the others had moved out of earshot.

“The charity function.”

She nodded, her focus narrowing on me. “What about it?”

“We’ll need to coordinate.”

That seemed obvious to me. Apparently, it wasn’t sufficiently specific for her.

“Coordinate what?” she asked. “Research? Talking points? Background on the board members? If you want a packet on the director and her wife, I can start putting one together this afternoon.”

I studied her. This, I suspected, was how she moved through life. Someone opened a door an inch and she’d already found three possible entry points, five useful documents, and a way to make herself harder to dismiss. It was effective.

“First,” I said, “your attire.”

She only blinked. But there it was, the tiny interruption in rhythm that told me I’d stepped sideways from the path she expected.