8. Quinn #2
It was brief, but it changed his face so completely that my thoughts stumbled over themselves. So far, he’d been all angles and distance, exuding enough authority to make everyone in conference rooms sit up straighter.
Here, surrounded by mothballed cashmere and a peacock in knitwear, his smile softened that severe edge he had.
It didn’t make him any less intimidating.
If anything, it made the intimidation worse, because now there was evidence of a living person beneath all that restraint, and I had a terrible, specific desire to keep finding him.
“I should warn you,” I told Octavia, because humor was useful when your brain started naming facial expressions like they were rare birds. “This isn’t a normal shopping trip.”
Octavia drew herself up. “Quinn, my darling, there is no such thing as a normal shopping trip. There are only shopping trips where people admit the stakes.”
“The stakes are gala-level.”
Her expression sharpened.
“And not a fun gala, either,” I added. “Upper-crust charity event. Museum people. Money people. People who know the difference between seasonal black and archival black.”
Octavia’s nostrils flared like she’d scented battle. “How much time do we have?”
“Three days.”
“What’s the event?”
“A charity drive for a medical service-dog program,” Rafe said.
Octavia pointed at him. “You. Good posture. Stand where I can see you.”
He obeyed before he seemed to realize he’d been commanded.
I pressed my lips together.
Rafe looked at me. “Is she always like this?”
“Only when she’s awake.”
“I heard that,” Octavia said, already moving toward the back. “And yes. I am.”
Max followed her two steps, then glanced back at me with mild concern.
“Bleib,” I told him softly.
He sat, though his attention stayed where Octavia had retreated.
Octavia returned with an armful of garment bags.
“We need rich-adjacent, not rich-pretending. Elegant, but not timid. Approachable enough for dog people, but serious enough for museum people. Distinct enough that nobody forgets you, and shoes you can stand in for three hours without wanting to cut your feet off.”
Rafe’s gaze moved over me.
It wasn’t the look he’d given me in the conference room, evaluating whether I was useful, reckless, or some chaotic combination of both.
This was… harder to interpret. Maybe he was horrified by the whole situation and had enough manners not to show it.
Maybe he was standing there, thinking, My God, she owns synthetic fibers.
Maybe his dragon instincts considered polyester a blood enemy.
“All right,” I said, clapping once, awkwardly. “Let’s dress me before I start trying to read minds and hurt my own feelings.”
Octavia patted my cheek. “There’s my girl. Into the dressing room. Mr. Vineyard, you may sit on the velvet chair and offer judgment only when invited.”
Rafe glanced toward the velvet chair, which was pink, tufted, and shaped like something a Hollywood starlet might have thrown a robe over in 1958. “Mr. Vineyard?”
“It was that or Mr. Ruin-a-Man’s-Life-in-Court.”
“I prefer the first.”
“Most men do.”
This time, he grinned, which sent heat coursing through my blood.
The first dress was green, bias-cut, and beautiful on the hanger. Beautiful on the hanger often meant deeply committed to humiliating anyone with hips, ribs, or an appetite. I stepped out anyway, smoothing the fabric down my sides.
Octavia tilted her head.
Rafe looked up from where he’d been sitting with Max beside him, one large hand resting absently on the dog’s head. Max, a traitor with excellent judgment, appeared fully at peace.
“The color is excellent,” Rafe said.
I blinked. “Thank you.”
“The fabric is not.”
My hand froze at my waist. “Oh.”
Octavia nodded with solemn approval. “Correct.”
Rafe’s gaze stayed on the dress, not my body, which I appreciated more than I wanted to. “It catches the light poorly. Under ballroom lighting, it will draw attention for the wrong reasons.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“That the dress is working too hard.”
The words landed wrong, and I could feel my defensive walls rising.
Then I saw his face. He wasn’t sneering.
He wasn’t amused. He was studying the dress with absolute seriousness.
I could tell he hadn’t meant it as an insult.
It was merely information to him, maybe even protection, though he would probably rather swallow a cufflink than call it that.
Octavia must’ve seen me process that because she moved in, brisk and kind. “He’s right, sweetheart. It’s a wicked color on you, but the fabric’s a tattletale. Off with it.”
“Great,” I said, retreating into the dressing room. “We hate snitches.”
The second dress was navy, sleek, and tasteful. Its neckline said, I contribute to museums and have never eaten shredded cheese directly from the bag while standing in my kitchen at midnight.
I came out and did a small turn.
Octavia made a considering sound.
Rafe studied me long enough that warmth crawled up my neck. “That’s quite stylish.”
I lifted my brows. “But?”
“But it’s too outdated to read as current and too recent to read as vintage. It occupies an unfortunate valley.”
“An unfortunate valley?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“I’m wearing the uncanny valley of dresses?”
His lips twitched. “Essentially.”
Octavia snapped her fingers. “Exactly. It’s giving divorced gallery owner at a silent auction in 2014. Not what we’re looking for.”
The next one was red and dramatic, with a slit that made me feel powerful for approximately three seconds before I remembered I would need to sit down at some point.
When I stepped out, Rafe’s expression became impossible to read again.
His attention moved over the dress, then to my face, then away.
Octavia hummed. “Well?”
Rafe cleared his throat. “The cut is strong.”
“Strong good?” I asked.
“Noticeable.”
“Those are not necessarily the same thing.”
“No.”
I looked down. “Too much?”
“For this event, yes,” he said. “It draws attention before it gives anyone a reason to listen to you.”
I looked at him too quickly.
For one suspended moment, the shop settled around us: the warm lights, the crowded racks, Octavia’s satisfied smile, Max’s steady breathing. Rafe’s gaze held mine with that same unreadable intensity, as if there was something he’d chosen not to say, and the silence had weight because of it.
My stomach dipped.
Maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe he wasn’t charmed or curious. Maybe I was a problem he’d bought himself with one badly timed boon, and now he was stuck trying to polish me until I embarrassed him as little as possible. Maybe the thing he was holding back was distaste.
I’d dealt with distaste before.
“All right,” I said, too brightly, turning to the dressing room. “Next contestant. Let’s find something that says, ‘I can discuss repatriation law and also know which fork to use.’”
Octavia’s voice softened by one careful degree. “We’ve got you, darling.”
And because Octavia had known me for years, because she’d watched me buy interview blazers with grocery money and then pretend I was delighted to eat lentils for a week, I ducked behind the curtain before my face could show my thoughts.
The fourth dress didn’t look like much at first.
On the hanger, it was deep plum, almost black until the light hit it at the right angle.
The bodice was simple, the sleeves sheer but not fussy, the train long enough to be formal without suggesting I’d escaped from a period drama.
It had tiny beadwork around the cuffs and collar, subtle as starlight if starlight had passed a bar exam.
The tag inside made my eyebrows climb.
“Octavia,” I called.
“Yes, dear?”
“This is designer.”
“Most things are designed by someone.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Put it on before you start judging.”
“I’m not judging. I’m financially panicking.”
“Same sound from you.”
I put it on.
It wasn’t a perfect fit, because thrift-store miracles still respected physics, but close enough that I looked at my reflection in shock. The dress made me seem taller and more elegant somehow. It didn’t erase me or disguise me as someone else. It made my scrappy competence look like a strategy.
When I stepped out, Octavia and Rafe went still.
That shouldn’t have pleased me as much as it did. Stillness wasn’t praise. Stillness could mean many things, including “I have just realized this intern is going to cost more than anticipated.” But neither of them spoke right away, and the quiet felt different from before.
Octavia recovered first. “There she is.”
I looked at Rafe; his face had become very composed.
“Yes,” he said.
“One syllable,” I said. “Devastatingly informative.”
“The dress is right.”
“Right as in adequate, or right as in I won’t be mistaken for a caterer who got ambitious?”
His gaze dipped briefly to the beadwork at my wrist, then came back to my face. “People will look at you twice, and on the second look they will wonder how they missed so much the first time.”
My mouth parted, but no words came out.
Octavia simply turned away and began rummaging through a glass case of jewelry as if men said things like that to me all the time.
They didn’t.
“That’s almost encouraging,” I said, because if I didn’t make a joke, I might do something embarrassing like thank him sincerely.
“It was meant to be encouraging.”
“You may want to warn people before you’re unexpectedly complimentary.”
His mouth curved again, small and reluctant. Ah. The almost-smile, as if joy were a limited resource.
Octavia returned with earrings and a narrow bracelet. “These. Nothing at the throat. Let the neckline work for you. Hair up, but not severe. You’ve got a neck. Use it.”
“I love when fashion advice sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Beauty is war with better lighting.”
Rafe looked at Octavia. “I suspect my mother would like you.”
The words carried respect, but beneath it was pain.
Octavia’s expression gentled. “Then she must be a woman of taste.”
“She is.”