Page 49 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Such blatant betrayal,” I said.

Max leaned into her with solemn satisfaction.

Octavia cupped his face. “Look at you. Handsome as ever. Distinguished. Employed, though nobody pays you what you’re worth.”

“Please stop radicalizing my dog,” I said.

“He’s always been radicalized.” She slipped him a treat from the pocket of her pantsuit, then gave me a quick squeeze around the waist. “There’s my girl. Too skinny. Too tired.”

“I brought you a challenge.”

Her face brightened, then her attention moved past me to Rafe.

It was fascinating, watching Octavia take him in. Her gaze went from his shoes to his coat to his face with the practiced speed of a woman who could identify fabric content at ten paces and emotional repression at twenty.

“Well,” she said. “You look expensive.”

Rafe’s brows rose. “That’s not usually the first thing people say to me.”

“Then you’re spending time with cowards.” She offered her hand. “Octavia Andreas. Owner, curator, occasional hostage negotiator when someone’s daughter wants to wear beige to prom.”

He took her hand with surprising care. “Rafe Virelli.”

“Rafe,” she repeated, looking pleased. “Good, strong name. Sounds like you could either own a vineyard or ruin a man’s life in court.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Octavia laughed in delight. And Rafe smiled.

It was brief, but it changed his face so completely that my thoughts stumbled over themselves. So far, he’d been all angles and distance, exuding enough authority to make everyone in conference rooms sit up straighter.

Here, surrounded by mothballed cashmere and a peacock in knitwear, his smile softened that severe edge he had. It didn’t make him any less intimidating. If anything, it made the intimidation worse, because now there was evidence of a living person beneath all that restraint, and I had a terrible, specific desire to keep finding him.

“I should warn you,” I told Octavia, because humor was useful when your brain started naming facial expressions like they were rare birds. “This isn’t a normal shopping trip.”

Octavia drew herself up. “Quinn, my darling, there is no such thing as a normal shopping trip. There are only shopping trips where people admit the stakes.”

“The stakes are gala-level.”

Her expression sharpened.

“And not a fun gala, either,” I added. “Upper-crust charity event. Museum people. Money people. People who know the difference between seasonal black and archival black.”

Octavia’s nostrils flared like she’d scented battle. “How much time do we have?”

“Three days.”

“What’s the event?”

“A charity drive for a medical service-dog program,” Rafe said.

Octavia pointed at him. “You. Good posture. Stand where I can see you.”

He obeyed before he seemed to realize he’d been commanded.

I pressed my lips together.

Rafe looked at me. “Is she always like this?”