Page 54 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“He looks respectable,” Rafe said.

“He looks like he would deny my co-op application.”

Octavia sighed dreamily. “My grandpuppy is going to ruin lives.”

“He already has,” I told her. “Mostly mine. He takes up eighty percent of the bed and has better healthcare than I do.”

Rafe rose, and his gaze moved from Max to me again. The three of us, coordinated by accident, and Octavia, stood in the middle of a thrift store between a rack of leather jackets and a display of ceramic geese in bonnets.

It should’ve been ridiculous.

It was ridiculous.

For a second, I saw us from outside: me in a dress I never could’ve afforded new, Max looking like the dignified war hero he was, and Rafe watching us with an expression I couldn’t place. Surprise, perhaps.

My chest went tight in a way I didn’t appreciate.

“Well,” I said, smoothing my hands down the skirt. “We have achieved the impossible. I look like I know what a gala is, and Max looks like he’s chairing one.”

“Successful mission,” Rafe said.

I retreated and changed quickly. When I exited the dressing room, Max was swallowing another treat, and Octavia stashed the evidence in her pocket quickly. Rafe stared on in quiet observation. I shook my head.

Octavia gathered the dress, the bracelet, the earrings, the tie, and a pair of plum satin heels she produced from nowhere like a magician. The shoes fit too, which was highly suspicious. Either Octavia had been saving them for me, or the universe had briefly stopped being rude.

By then the spell of it was beginning to thin enough for practical terror to return.

Designer dress. Earrings. Bracelet. Shoes. Max’s tie.

Even thrifted, this was going to hurt.

I followed Octavia to the counter, already doing math in my head, wondering which bill I could overlook this month. Electricity disliked being ignored, and student loans had the sympathy of a medieval tax collector. Groceries were theoretically important, but I had ramen, peanut butter, and the capacity to call popcorn dinner.

Octavia sighed. “Now, before you start making that face⁠—”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You’re making the spreadsheet face.”

Rafe looked at me. “Spreadsheet face?”

“The one she makes when she’s deciding which bill can be late.”

My face heated. “Octavia.”

Her expression softened. “Sweetheart, he should know what he’s asking you to carry.”

I reached for my wallet.

Rafe’s hand came down lightly on the counter between my wallet and Octavia. “No.”

I looked at his hand because it was there, broad and unfairly elegant. “Excuse me?”

“I have it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”