Page 71 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“If they’re the reason you’re so worried about receiving an offer, why not eliminate them?”

She stared at me. Then she laughed again, but this time it was brighter, edged with disbelief. “Oh my god. You meant that.”

“Yes.”

“You mean pay them off?”

“Yes.”

“With what, the secret chests of gold I store in my closet?”

“I didn’t mean to imply⁠—”

“I know.” She held up a hand, still laughing a little. “I know you didn’t. That’s what makes it sweet and insane.”

“Sweet and insane,” I repeated. I watched her, then looked down at the dog. Max gazed back gravely, offering no legal opinion. “How much?” I asked again.

Her smile faltered.

The question had moved too close. I knew it as soon as I said it, but concern had a way of overruling tact if I didn’t watch it carefully. My father called that leadership when it worked and interference when it didn’t. My mother, on one of her clear days, had once called it love trying to put on armor before anyone had asked for protection.

I didn’t know what to call it with Quinn.

She shifted her weight in the satin heels. “A lot.”

“That’s not a number.”

“It’s the closest you’ll get from a number out of me.”

“Quinn—”

“No.” She said it softly, but firmly enough that I stopped. Then she smiled, saving us both from the edge of whatever had opened beneath the conversation. “I appreciate the concern. Truly. But I have a plan, and tonight the plan is not spiraling about debt next to a table of luxury dog portraits.”

I followed her gaze. On the nearest auction table, a sample portrait of a dachshund in a naval uniform stared into the middle distance.

“We can revisit the subject later,” I said.

“We absolutely cannot.”

“We appear to be at an impasse.”

“I’m comfortable with that.”

I wasn’t, but her chin lifted, telling me she’d drawn a line. I’d crossed enough lines in my life by trying to help too hard. The fact that I wanted to solve the problem didn’t make it mine to solve.

I inclined my head. “Then for tonight, we focus on the museum director.”

Something in her face eased. “For tonight,” she agreed.

Applause rose around us as a woman stepped onto the small stage and welcomed everyone to the annual benefit, her voice warm through the microphone. Guests began drifting toward their assigned tables.

Quinn turned toward the sound, shoulders squaring.

I watched the movement. The return of purpose. The way nerves didn’t vanish from her face so much as become fuel.

As the speech ended, the room loosened again, and we started to slowly make our way toward our target.

Chairs scraped back from tables, servers moved in careful paths between guests, and conversation rose immediately, as if everyone had been holding it in while the foundation director thanked donors, board members, sponsors, and one elderly Labrador named Buttons, who had apparently inspired an entire pilot program through charm and joint pain.