Page 45 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Yes.”

She nodded. “I can meet you there after work.”

I glanced down at the paper. Grand Thrift Oughta. Maybe my hope had been misplaced.

I folded the paper once and slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket. “Good.”

She looked at me with an expression I couldn’t interpret. Part challenge, part curiosity.

“Do you do this often?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Screen women’s formalwear before public appearances?”

I looked at her. “No.”

That seemed to please her.

“Good,” she said. “I was worried I’d stumbled into a very niche area of the law.”

There was silence for half a beat.

Then, because precision mattered, I said, “I don’t dislike how you dress now.”

Moira and Peter had moved into the corridor. Somewhere farther off, a copier began its mechanical death rattle. But at the table there was only Quinn Bradley and the distinct feeling that I’d said something I couldn’t retract and was mildly irritated to find that I didn’t want to.

I clarified. “It simply isn’t appropriate for a gala.”

One corner of her mouth moved. “You know, phrased slightly differently, that could’ve been a compliment.”

“I’ve already given you one this week. I see no reason to become irresponsible with my praise.”

That got a laugh out of her. The warm, low sound changed her face in ways I found unexpectedly distracting.

“All right, Mr. Virelli,” she said, reaching again for the coffee tray. “Six o’clock. I’ll bring myself and my apparently inadequate but not entirely objectionable wardrobe.”

I started toward the door, then stopped and looked back once.

She was already in motion again, already making herself useful in a place that wasn’t built to recognize the full extent of it. I found, unexpectedly, that I disliked the thought of anyone else there reducing her to coffee service. The reaction was disproportionate and therefore irritating.

“Ms. Bradley.”

She looked up again. “Yes?”

“Don’t be late.”

Her eyes widened just slightly, then brightened with unmistakable amusement. “I’ll try to recover from that threat in time.”

I left, the address in my pocket and a new problem arranging itself quietly in the background of my mind. By evening, I would be standing in a thrift store in Chelsea waiting to judge an intern’s gala dress.

I’d no idea when my life had become this strange.

What was more disconcerting was that I didn’t entirely mind.

8

QUINN