Page 46 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

MAX'S PROFESSIONAL OPINION

By five fifty-two, I’d checked the time on my phone so often, it had begun to feel obsessive.

Max sat beside me under the purple awning of Grand Thrift Oughta, calm as ever. Every few seconds, when I shifted my weight or let out the kind of breath he considered suspect, he pressed the warm length of himself into my leg. Thankfully, Max didn’t discriminate between stressors. Whether the threat was gunfire, bad dreams, or waiting outside a thrift store for a dragon, his response was roughly the same: lean harder.

“I know,” I told him quietly. “You think I’m being weird.”

His ears tipped back just enough to affirm that.

I glanced through the window, my gaze passing over sequins and brass lamps before moving back down the street. Chelsea had that evening weekday energy I’d always liked, all purposeful people walking dogs and couples negotiating dinner. The air was a little chilly, though I was mostly warm from nerves.

It wasn’t like this was a date. It wasn’t even adjacent to a date. It was a wardrobe consultation with a dragon-client because I had, in a single week, returned a family heirloom and gotten myself assigned to the kind of case law students built fake LinkedIn posts around.

Still, I’d changed my earrings twice.

Max pressed harder against my leg.

“You’re being very smug for somebody who once barked at a bagpipe busker,” I informed him.

He looked up at me with complete emotional neutrality.

A black car turned the corner and slowed.

My whole body snapped to attention.

The sleek car was discreet, but it still screamed wealth. It pulled up at the curb, and the driver got out, opening the rear door. Mr. Virelli stepped out with a contained grace that was entirely too compelling.

He wasn’t wearing a suit this time. Which was a shame, because I hadn’t accounted for a dark coat over a charcoal sweater and black trousers. It made him look less law-firm client and more emotionally unavailable prince. A fucking hot prince, at that.

He glanced up at the awning before meeting my eyes.

Then he noticed Max.

I would never say this to his face because I had plans for both my career and my continued oxygen intake, but the cautious look that crossed his face almost made me laugh.

I smiled before I could help it. “Good evening.”

“Ms. Bradley.”

“We’re not at the firm. I’d prefer if you called me Quinn.”

He inclined his head. “Then you must call me Rafe.”

His gaze dropped again to Max, who remained seated because he was perfect—and I’d threatened him with an early bath if he embarrassed me in front of the dragon.

“A dog wasn’t in the plan.”

“Technically, no,” I said. “But I have a proposal.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Before you say no, hear me out.”

He looked at Max again. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You have a very expressive silence.”

His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit.