Page 75 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

I let her go.

11

QUINN

XANTHIPPE

Touching Rafe Virelli’s chest hadn’t been part of my plan.

Neither was discovering that beneath all that expensive tailoring, he was warm and very solid. But life was a rich buffet of surprises if you were willing to embarrass yourself in formal wear.

My body had reacted to this information with humiliating enthusiasm, which I chose to blame on stress, low blood sugar, and the fact that my romantic life had recently been less a life and more a historical exhibit. Please observe this untouched habitat. No flash photography.

I walked away before my hand could develop muscle memory. Max stayed at my left side, calm and focused, while I tried very hard not to think about how Rafe had gone still beneath my palm. Not startled exactly. Rafe didn’t strike me as a man who startled easily. But something in him had paused, and for half a second, I’d felt the solid warmth of him under my hand, the contained strength, the body beneath all that severe tailoring.

Professional. Extremely normal.

“Okay, handsome,” I murmured to Max. “We have eight minutes to become approachable.”

Max looked up at me.

“Not desperate,” I added. “We have standards.”

He seemed reassured.

The ballroom looked different without Rafe beside me. People’s eyes still found Max. Of course they did. He was a seventy-pound retired military dog in a plum tie. But now, when they glanced down at him, they didn’t immediately look at Rafe and decide they had remembered an urgent need to study the flowers or the art on the walls.

Rafe opened doors because he was wealthy, powerful, beautiful, and carried himself like consequences had learned to wait for him. But he also closed doors, or at least made people hesitate at the threshold.

I moved toward the photo display along the edge of the ballroom, where the music was softer and the lighting had been arranged with real thought. The photographs were beautiful, but not in the manipulative way fundraising materials could be. They showed hard work, training, and trust. A woman holding a grocery bag while a Labrador pressed an elevator button. A little girl in a purple wheelchair laughing while a black Lab rested its chin on her knee. A man in uniform sitting on a park bench, one hand buried in the fur of a German shepherd, his face turned away from the camera as if privacy had been allowed to remain part of the story.

I liked that.

Actually, I liked it a lot.

“Platz,” I told Max softly.

He lowered himself beside me with perfect calm, front paws aligned, tie centered, head lifted enough to be admired. I shifted a half step away so no one approaching him would feel like they had to enter my personal space first. It was a small thing, but small things mattered.

A woman in a black cocktail dress and a volunteer badge glanced over. Mid-twenties, maybe, with dark curls pinned back and a clipboard hugged to her chest. Her gaze landed on Max. Max, because he was both noble and a menace, looked politely available.

The woman approached slowly. “Hi. Sorry. Is it okay if I ask about your dog?”

I loved her immediately. “Absolutely. Thank you for asking before reaching for him. Max, say hello.”

I gave the smallest hand cue, and Max shifted from dignified statue to dignified ambassador. He didn’t lunge or wag wildly. He simply lifted his head, eyes calm, allowing himself to be admired by the public.

The woman softened at once. “Oh my gosh. He’s beautiful.”

“He knows,” I said. “We’re managing it.”

She laughed, and some of the tightness left her shoulders. “Is he part of the program?”

“No. Retired military. He’s not a service dog per se. But he’s calm in crowds, and someone very generous approved him as a guest tonight.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait. This is Max?”

Max’s ears moved. I looked down at him. “We’re famous now. Try to stay humble.”