8. Quinn
QUINN
MAX'S PROFESSIONAL OPINION
By five fifty-two, I’d checked the time on my phone so often, it had begun to feel obsessive.
Max sat beside me under the purple awning of Grand Thrift Oughta, calm as ever.
Every few seconds, when I shifted my weight or let out the kind of breath he considered suspect, he pressed the warm length of himself into my leg.
Thankfully, Max didn’t discriminate between stressors.
Whether the threat was gunfire, bad dreams, or waiting outside a thrift store for a dragon, his response was roughly the same: lean harder.
“I know,” I told him quietly. “You think I’m being weird.”
His ears tipped back just enough to affirm that.
I glanced through the window, my gaze passing over sequins and brass lamps before moving back down the street.
Chelsea had that evening weekday energy I’d always liked, all purposeful people walking dogs and couples negotiating dinner.
The air was a little chilly, though I was mostly warm from nerves.
It wasn’t like this was a date. It wasn’t even adjacent to a date. It was a wardrobe consultation with a dragon-client because I had, in a single week, returned a family heirloom and gotten myself assigned to the kind of case law students built fake LinkedIn posts around.
Still, I’d changed my earrings twice.
Max pressed harder against my leg.
“You’re being very smug for somebody who once barked at a bagpipe busker,” I informed him.
He looked up at me with complete emotional neutrality.
A black car turned the corner and slowed.
My whole body snapped to attention.
The sleek car was discreet, but it still screamed wealth. It pulled up at the curb, and the driver got out, opening the rear door. Mr. Virelli stepped out with a contained grace that was entirely too compelling.
He wasn’t wearing a suit this time. Which was a shame, because I hadn’t accounted for a dark coat over a charcoal sweater and black trousers. It made him look less law-firm client and more emotionally unavailable prince. A fucking hot prince, at that.
He glanced up at the awning before meeting my eyes.
Then he noticed Max.
I would never say this to his face because I had plans for both my career and my continued oxygen intake, but the cautious look that crossed his face almost made me laugh.
I smiled before I could help it. “Good evening.”
“Ms. Bradley.”
“We’re not at the firm. I’d prefer if you called me Quinn.”
He inclined his head. “Then you must call me Rafe.”
His gaze dropped again to Max, who remained seated because he was perfect—and I’d threatened him with an early bath if he embarrassed me in front of the dragon.
“A dog wasn’t in the plan.”
“Technically, no,” I said. “But I have a proposal.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Before you say no, hear me out.”
He looked at Max again. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You have a very expressive silence.”
His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit.
“Based on what I found out about the museum director,” I continued, not allowing myself to get sidetracked, “she’s not just on a lot of charity boards.
She seems to really care about them. She doesn’t slap her name on a cause and vanish into donor photographs.
She’s hands-on, especially with anything involving education, cultural access, and disability services. ”
“So?” he said.
“So,” I said, crouching a little to rest a hand on Max’s shoulder, “the gala is for a service-dog training initiative. That tells me two things. One, she’s probably a dog person. Two, she’s more than likely a service-dog person. There’s not always as much overlap between the two as you’d think.”
Rafe’s gaze shifted to my hand on Max, then to the dog himself. “You think bringing him will help.”
“I think bringing him could help a lot.”
Max, who hadn’t moved, lifted his head and regarded him with quiet scrutiny.
The moment had an absurd diplomatic air to it.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is he a service dog?”
“He’s retired military.”
That got his full attention.
I crouched and rested a hand on Max’s shoulder.
“He worked overseas. Explosive detection, joint training, and other missions. He retired after protecting his handler during an IED incident and losing part of his hearing in one ear. He spends most of his time judging my life choices and mentoring my best friend’s nervous rescue dogs, but he still knows how to hold himself in public. I think he helps tell the right story.”
Rafe looked at Max again, more carefully this time.
I said, “Also, to be completely fair, he is very handsome.”
His expression didn’t change.
I sighed. “That was a joke. Mostly.”
His eyes moved over Max’s harness, posture, scar, the slight asymmetry in the way he held his right ear. He missed very little. That, too, I had noticed.
“He’s deaf?” he asked.
“Forty percent hearing loss on the right side.”
After a beat, Rafe crouched. Seeing a man lower himself to my dog’s level shouldn’t have made my stomach flip the way it did, but my nervous system was committed to a very specific spiral this week.
He didn’t reach for Max. Good sign. Very good sign. Instead, he held still and let Max smell him first.
That was how you knew somebody had either grown up around animals or cared enough to learn what made them feel safe. Pushy people always wanted affection instantly, as if dogs existed to validate them on demand. Max respected patience and authority.
After a moment, Max stepped forward and sniffed the back of Rafe’s hand.
Rafe stayed still.
Max sniffed once more, then sat again.
“Oh,” I said softly. “Well, that’s practically a love sonnet.”
Rafe looked up at me. “Is it?”
“From him? Yes.”
His gaze shifted to the sequined chaos and suspect mannequin styling of Grand Thrift Oughta. Rafe wasn’t easy to read, but I was beginning to understand that his silences weren’t empty, merely space for him to think.
At last, he said, “Fine.”
I brightened. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Excellent. He’ll be very normal.”
Rafe looked at Max. “Will he?”
“Probably.”
He exhaled through his nose, which I was now fairly sure counted as the dragon equivalent of a laugh, and that made me feel strangely proud of myself. I set myself a private goal of getting him to do more than that amused exhale and actually laugh.
“If this goes poorly, I’ll hold you responsible.”
I nodded. “That’s fair.”
His eyes met mine then, and something shifted in the look. It was as if he’d made a decision about me that wasn’t yet flattering but had at least become interested.
“Come along, then,” he said.
He stepped toward the shop entrance, and I fell into place beside him with Max at my other side.
Today, Grand Thrift Oughta smelled like cedar sachets, old leather, steamed wool, and whatever candle Octavia had bullied a local artisan into making for her under the name Rich Widow in a Sunroom.
Max stepped inside ahead of me like the senior partner on a site visit.
Rafe followed, visibly recalibrating for a retail experience that didn’t involve discreet lighting or anyone offering him sparkling water.
To be fair, Grand Thrift Oughta wasn’t a shop that explained itself gently.
A sequined caftan hung beside a rack of perfectly sober wool trousers.
A taxidermy peacock wore three strands of fake pearls and, for reasons known only to Octavia and God, a tiny, knitted beret.
Near the register, a hand-lettered sign read NO RETURNS UNLESS THE ITEM HAS CURSED YOU, IN WHICH CASE I NEED DETAILS.
“Do you often shop at places that advertise supernatural liability?” Rafe asked.
I grinned. “Only when the tailoring’s good.”
His gaze shifted to me, dry and assessing. “And is it?”
“Sometimes the best in the city. Sometimes a blouse has a mysterious stain and retains unresolved trauma. That’s the thrill of the hunt.”
“I see.”
He clearly didn’t see, but he was trying, which was more than I’d expected from a man whose net worth was unfathomable to me.
From somewhere behind the forest of clothing racks, Octavia’s voice rang out in her glorious, sharp-edged Boston accent. “Is that my favorite grandpuppy I hear?”
Max’s tail thumped against a display of vintage umbrellas.
Rafe looked down at him, then searched the store for the grandmother in question. I had the rare, wicked pleasure of watching Rafe Virelli be genuinely confused.
“Grandpuppy?” he asked.
“Max has a complicated social life.”
“Clearly.”
Before I could elaborate, Octavia emerged from behind the shoe rack wearing a bedazzled pantsuit, her lips painted in a vivid, merciless red.
“My baby,” she said, opening her arms.
I bent down automatically for the hug.
She walked right past me and embraced Max.
“Such blatant betrayal,” I said.
Max leaned into her with solemn satisfaction.
Octavia cupped his face. “Look at you. Handsome as ever. Distinguished. Employed, though nobody pays you what you’re worth.”
“Please stop radicalizing my dog,” I said.
“He’s always been radicalized.” She slipped him a treat from the pocket of her pantsuit, then gave me a quick squeeze around the waist. “There’s my girl. Too skinny. Too tired.”
“I brought you a challenge.”
Her face brightened, then her attention moved past me to Rafe.
It was fascinating, watching Octavia take him in. Her gaze went from his shoes to his coat to his face with the practiced speed of a woman who could identify fabric content at ten paces and emotional repression at twenty.
“Well,” she said. “You look expensive.”
Rafe’s brows rose. “That’s not usually the first thing people say to me.”
“Then you’re spending time with cowards.” She offered her hand. “Octavia Andreas. Owner, curator, occasional hostage negotiator when someone’s daughter wants to wear beige to prom.”
He took her hand with surprising care. “Rafe Virelli.”
“Rafe,” she repeated, looking pleased. “Good, strong name. Sounds like you could either own a vineyard or ruin a man’s life in court.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Octavia laughed in delight. And Rafe smiled.