Page 44 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“My attire,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“For the gala.”

“Yes.”

She folded her arms loosely. “I know how to dress for a gala.”

“I wasn’t implying otherwise.”

“Mm.” That wasn’t agreement. It was a noise women made when men were trying their patience.

I went on. “Do you have appropriate evening clothes for that sort of event?”

She looked at me for one beat longer than necessary, and I could almost see the calculation moving behind her eyes. Offense, practicality, pride, amusement.

“I don’t currently have gala clothes in my wardrobe, no,” she said. “But I have a place I go when I need things for events or interviews. I’m sure I can find something suitable.”

I believed that she believed it. I also looked at her properly then and had to concede, with some annoyance, that I liked the way she dressed.

What she was currently wearing wasn’t suitable for a gala, but I liked it.

There was personality in it. Enough color to suggest a private resistance to beige without tipping into obvious rebellion. The scarf at her throat wasn’t expensive, but it was well chosen. So were the shoes. She was a woman who knew how to make herself distinct inside a professional uniform and had learned to do it without spending out of her budget.

At a law firm, that read as sharp.

At a high-end charity function, it would read as someone who had… tried, which was a different thing entirely, and not one I intended to let happen while she was there under my name.

“I’m sure you can,” I said. “I’d still like to approve the attire beforehand.”

Her brows lifted. “You want to approve my outfit?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head. “That seems… unusually hands-on for a client.”

“You’ll be representing me socially,” I said. “Everyone will make assumptions before you open your mouth. I prefer to remove as many barriers as possible.”

“All right,” she said. “You’re welcome to come along, then.”

It wasn’t the answer I’d expected.

I’d expected embarrassment, perhaps, or resigned compliance. Instead, she invited me into the solution as if the notion of taking a dragon to a dress shop were only marginally stranger than anything else in her week.

“Where?” I asked.

“There’s a place in Chelsea I like,” she said. “I’ve been going there for years. The owner’s a genius and a menace.”

In my experience, brilliance rarely arrived without collateral damage. Her assessment gave me some hope.

She wrote an address down on a legal pad, then tore the paper off it. I stepped closer to take it, and the movement brought us nearer than we had stood without the chaos of a hallway full of lawyers.

A faint, citrusy scent hit me beneath the strong smell of coffee. Her scarf brushed lightly against the lapel of her blouse when she bent over the paper. A loose strand of hair had escaped whatever arrangement had held it that morning and now framed her face.

I took the paper from her hand.

“Six o’clock?” she asked.