Page 50 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Only when she’s awake.”

“I heard that,” Octavia said, already moving toward the back. “And yes. I am.”

Max followed her two steps, then glanced back at me with mild concern.

“Bleib,” I told him softly.

He sat, though his attention stayed where Octavia had retreated.

Octavia returned with an armful of garment bags. “We need rich-adjacent, not rich-pretending. Elegant, but not timid. Approachable enough for dog people, but serious enough for museum people. Distinct enough that nobody forgets you, and shoes you can stand in for three hours without wanting to cut your feet off.”

Rafe’s gaze moved over me.

It wasn’t the look he’d given me in the conference room, evaluating whether I was useful, reckless, or some chaotic combination of both. This was… harder to interpret. Maybe he was horrified by the whole situation and had enough manners not to show it. Maybe he was standing there, thinking, My God, she owns synthetic fibers. Maybe his dragon instincts considered polyester a blood enemy.

“All right,” I said, clapping once, awkwardly. “Let’s dress me before I start trying to read minds and hurt my own feelings.”

Octavia patted my cheek. “There’s my girl. Into the dressing room. Mr. Vineyard, you may sit on the velvet chair and offer judgment only when invited.”

Rafe glanced toward the velvet chair, which was pink, tufted, and shaped like something a Hollywood starlet might have thrown a robe over in 1958. “Mr. Vineyard?”

“It was that or Mr. Ruin-a-Man’s-Life-in-Court.”

“I prefer the first.”

“Most men do.”

This time, he grinned, which sent heat coursing through my blood.

The first dress was green, bias-cut, and beautiful on the hanger. Beautiful on the hanger often meant deeply committed to humiliating anyone with hips, ribs, or an appetite. I stepped out anyway, smoothing the fabric down my sides.

Octavia tilted her head.

Rafe looked up from where he’d been sitting with Max beside him, one large hand resting absently on the dog’s head. Max, a traitor with excellent judgment, appeared fully at peace.

“The color is excellent,” Rafe said.

I blinked. “Thank you.”

“The fabric is not.”

My hand froze at my waist. “Oh.”

Octavia nodded with solemn approval. “Correct.”

Rafe’s gaze stayed on the dress, not my body, which I appreciated more than I wanted to. “It catches the light poorly. Under ballroom lighting, it will draw attention for the wrong reasons.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“That the dress is working too hard.”

The words landed wrong, and I could feel my defensive walls rising. Then I saw his face. He wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t amused. He was studying the dress with absolute seriousness. I could tell he hadn’t meant it as an insult. It was merely information to him, maybe even protection, though he would probably rather swallow a cufflink than call it that.

Octavia must’ve seen me process that because she moved in, brisk and kind. “He’s right, sweetheart. It’s a wicked color on you, but the fabric’s a tattletale. Off with it.”

“Great,” I said, retreating into the dressing room. “We hate snitches.”

The second dress was navy, sleek, and tasteful. Its neckline said, I contribute to museums and have never eaten shredded cheese directly from the bag while standing in my kitchen at midnight.