Page 61 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Quinn’s smile returned, softer this time. “Careful, Virelli. People might start thinking you’re thoughtful.”

“They would be wrong.”

“Would they?”

“Yes.” I gestured toward the open door. “I’m merely thorough.”

“Of course,” she said. “Heaven forbid we mislabel you.”

As she climbed into the car, gathering the skirt with an instinctive care that made me want to tell her again that she looked striking, I turned slightly toward the street and drew in a calming breath.

Get yourself together, Virelli, you easily distracted bastard.

I got in after Quinn and closed the door behind me.

Max had already settled on the floor across from her, his plum tie perfectly centered, body angled so he could keep both Quinn and the door in view. The larger car had been the right choice. He had enough room to stretch out, and Quinn had noticed. She’d thanked me once already, lightly, almost teasing, but there had been something softer beneath it that I’d no intention of examining.

The driver pulled away from the curb.

For a few seconds, no one spoke.

The silence should not have bothered me. Silence was one of the few social conditions I preferred. It left fewer opportunities for people to say foolish things and expect me to pretend they hadn’t. But this silence felt less like quiet and more like an object placed carefully between us.

I adjusted the cuffs of my sleeves.

There. A normal thing to do with my hands.

I’d never been awkward in my life. Not in boardrooms, not in pack gatherings, not in social events where everyone had learned the same language of money and never admitted it was a language at all.

But with Quinn Bradley beside me, with the scent of her perfume in the air and the memory of my hand at her waist still inconveniently present, I found myself reaching for something to do.

The car had a small cabinet in the side console. I opened it, removed a tumbler, then the whiskey.

Quinn’s gaze dropped to the bottle. “Is that whiskey?”

“Yes.”

“In the car?”

“In the car cooler.”

She turned her head slowly toward me. “You understand that saying car cooler doesn’t make it any less ridiculous, right?”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

“Rafe, there’s secret vehicle whiskey within arm’s reach.”

“It’s not secret. You’re looking directly at it.”

“That’s not the point.”

I poured a small amount, mostly because I’d begun and stopping now would make the action appear stranger than continuing. “Would you like one?”

“Before a professional event where I’m supposed to help charm a museum director?”

“It’s optional.”

“You don’t want to see what the interaction would be like if you served me pre-conversation alcohol.”