Page 47 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Based on what I found out about the museum director,” I continued, not allowing myself to get sidetracked, “she’s not just on a lot of charity boards. She seems to really care about them. She doesn’t slap her name on a cause and vanish into donor photographs. She’s hands-on, especially with anything involving education, cultural access, and disability services.”

“So?” he said.

“So,” I said, crouching a little to rest a hand on Max’s shoulder, “the gala is for a service-dog training initiative. That tells me two things. One, she’s probably a dog person. Two, she’s more than likely a service-dog person. There’s not always as much overlap between the two as you’d think.”

Rafe’s gaze shifted to my hand on Max, then to the dog himself. “You think bringing him will help.”

“I think bringing him could help a lot.”

Max, who hadn’t moved, lifted his head and regarded him with quiet scrutiny.

The moment had an absurd diplomatic air to it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is he a service dog?”

“He’s retired military.”

That got his full attention.

I crouched and rested a hand on Max’s shoulder. “He worked overseas. Explosive detection, joint training, and other missions. He retired after protecting his handler during an IED incident and losing part of his hearing in one ear. He spends most of his time judging my life choices and mentoring my best friend’s nervous rescue dogs, but he still knows how to hold himself in public. I think he helps tell the right story.”

Rafe looked at Max again, more carefully this time.

I said, “Also, to be completely fair, he is very handsome.”

His expression didn’t change.

I sighed. “That was a joke. Mostly.”

His eyes moved over Max’s harness, posture, scar, the slight asymmetry in the way he held his right ear. He missed very little. That, too, I had noticed.

“He’s deaf?” he asked.

“Forty percent hearing loss on the right side.”

After a beat, Rafe crouched. Seeing a man lower himself to my dog’s level shouldn’t have made my stomach flip the way it did, but my nervous system was committed to a very specific spiral this week.

He didn’t reach for Max. Good sign. Very good sign. Instead, he held still and let Max smell him first.

That was how you knew somebody had either grown up around animals or cared enough to learn what made them feel safe. Pushy people always wanted affection instantly, as if dogs existed to validate them on demand. Max respected patience and authority.

After a moment, Max stepped forward and sniffed the back of Rafe’s hand.

Rafe stayed still.

Max sniffed once more, then sat again.

“Oh,” I said softly. “Well, that’s practically a love sonnet.”

Rafe looked up at me. “Is it?”

“From him? Yes.”

His gaze shifted to the sequined chaos and suspect mannequin styling of Grand Thrift Oughta. Rafe wasn’t easy to read, but I was beginning to understand that his silences weren’t empty, merely space for him to think.

At last, he said, “Fine.”

I brightened. “Really?”