Page 53 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

The words carried respect, but beneath it was pain.

Octavia’s expression gentled. “Then she must be a woman of taste.”

“She is.”

He said it with such certainty that my teasing impulse, usually as reliable as gravity, stepped aside. I wondered what his mother was like, beyond the few crumbs of family history I’d picked up at work.

Then Max rose, shook himself, and nosed a rack of bow ties.

Octavia gasped. “Oh, the gentleman has reminded me.”

“Max?” I asked.

“He cannot attend a gala undressed.”

“He has a collar.”

“He’s not a beach tourist, Quinn.”

Rafe stood. “I agree.”

I turned to him. “You agree?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I echoed. “Of course. How foolish of me not to consider canine formalwear as an evidentiary necessity.”

Rafe stepped to the rack and examined the selection with the same sober attention he’d given the dresses. “He should have something that coordinates without matching too closely.”

I stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

“You have opinions about dog bow ties?”

“I have eyes.”

Octavia held up a tartan bow tie.

Rafe shook his head. “Too festive.”

I picked up a black satin one. “Classic?”

“For a funeral.”

“Rude. He’d look timeless.” I pressed the bow tie against Max’s chest. Max looked up at me with grave patience, as if enduring civilian morale exercises was simply part of retirement.

Octavia produced a deep plum tie that nearly matched my dress but had a tiny pattern woven through it, a gold thread that caught the light only when it moved.

Rafe took it from her and crouched in front of Max, holding the tie where Max could sniff it first, waiting for permission. Max leaned forward, gave the tie a professional inspection, then sat back and allowed Rafe to fasten it to his collar.

Rafe’s large hands worked carefully against the fur at Max’s throat.

“There,” he said.

Max looked devastating.

I put a hand over my heart. “He looks like he owns a brownstone and has opinions on zoning.”