8. Quinn #3
He said it with such certainty that my teasing impulse, usually as reliable as gravity, stepped aside. I wondered what his mother was like, beyond the few crumbs of family history I’d picked up at work.
Then Max rose, shook himself, and nosed a rack of bow ties.
Octavia gasped. “Oh, the gentleman has reminded me.”
“Max?” I asked.
“He cannot attend a gala undressed.”
“He has a collar.”
“He’s not a beach tourist, Quinn.”
Rafe stood. “I agree.”
I turned to him. “You agree?”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echoed. “Of course. How foolish of me not to consider canine formalwear as an evidentiary necessity.”
Rafe stepped to the rack and examined the selection with the same sober attention he’d given the dresses. “He should have something that coordinates without matching too closely.”
I stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“You have opinions about dog bow ties?”
“I have eyes.”
Octavia held up a tartan bow tie.
Rafe shook his head. “Too festive.”
I picked up a black satin one. “Classic?”
“For a funeral.”
“Rude. He’d look timeless.” I pressed the bow tie against Max’s chest. Max looked up at me with grave patience, as if enduring civilian morale exercises was simply part of retirement.
Octavia produced a deep plum tie that nearly matched my dress but had a tiny pattern woven through it, a gold thread that caught the light only when it moved.
Rafe took it from her and crouched in front of Max, holding the tie where Max could sniff it first, waiting for permission. Max leaned forward, gave the tie a professional inspection, then sat back and allowed Rafe to fasten it to his collar.
Rafe’s large hands worked carefully against the fur at Max’s throat.
“There,” he said.
Max looked devastating.
I put a hand over my heart. “He looks like he owns a brownstone and has opinions on zoning.”
“He looks respectable,” Rafe said.
“He looks like he would deny my co-op application.”
Octavia sighed dreamily. “My grandpuppy is going to ruin lives.”
“He already has,” I told her. “Mostly mine. He takes up eighty percent of the bed and has better healthcare than I do.”
Rafe rose, and his gaze moved from Max to me again. The three of us, coordinated by accident, and Octavia, stood in the middle of a thrift store between a rack of leather jackets and a display of ceramic geese in bonnets.
It should’ve been ridiculous.
It was ridiculous.
For a second, I saw us from outside: me in a dress I never could’ve afforded new, Max looking like the dignified war hero he was, and Rafe watching us with an expression I couldn’t place. Surprise, perhaps.
My chest went tight in a way I didn’t appreciate.
“Well,” I said, smoothing my hands down the skirt. “We have achieved the impossible. I look like I know what a gala is, and Max looks like he’s chairing one.”
“Successful mission,” Rafe said.
I retreated and changed quickly. When I exited the dressing room, Max was swallowing another treat, and Octavia stashed the evidence in her pocket quickly. Rafe stared on in quiet observation. I shook my head.
Octavia gathered the dress, the bracelet, the earrings, the tie, and a pair of plum satin heels she produced from nowhere like a magician. The shoes fit too, which was highly suspicious. Either Octavia had been saving them for me, or the universe had briefly stopped being rude.
By then the spell of it was beginning to thin enough for practical terror to return.
Designer dress. Earrings. Bracelet. Shoes. Max’s tie.
Even thrifted, this was going to hurt.
I followed Octavia to the counter, already doing math in my head, wondering which bill I could overlook this month.
Electricity disliked being ignored, and student loans had the sympathy of a medieval tax collector.
Groceries were theoretically important, but I had ramen, peanut butter, and the capacity to call popcorn dinner.
Octavia sighed. “Now, before you start making that face?—”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You’re making the spreadsheet face.”
Rafe looked at me. “Spreadsheet face?”
“The one she makes when she’s deciding which bill can be late.”
My face heated. “Octavia.”
Her expression softened. “Sweetheart, he should know what he’s asking you to carry.”
I reached for my wallet.
Rafe’s hand came down lightly on the counter between my wallet and Octavia. “No.”
I looked at his hand because it was there, broad and unfairly elegant. “Excuse me?”
“I have it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“This isn’t part of the agreement.”
“You need to attend the gala because of my case.”
“I wanted to help with your case. There is a difference.”
“And I selected you to represent my interests at an event with specific expectations.” His tone was even, which made arguing with him feel like throwing tennis balls at a courthouse. “I won’t have you incur expenses because I require something of you.”
“That is very noble and also not happening.”
Rafe took out his wallet. Black leather, understated, probably handcrafted by someone whose family had been making wallets since before America had reliable plumbing. He removed several bills and handed them to Octavia before I could see the amount.
“Mr. Virelli,” I said, reverting to formal.
His eyes met mine. “Ms. Bradley.”
The way he said my name was a problem.
I lowered my voice. “I don’t like people buying things for me.”
“I gathered.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
The store was suddenly too small. I’d loved every minute of trying on dresses with Octavia.
I’d even liked, to my extreme inconvenience, Rafe’s precise commentary.
But having him pay was different. Paying turned the dress from a find into an obligation.
Paying made me feel like a girl someone had decided to fix for an evening.
Rafe’s expression shifted, barely. “This isn’t charity.”
My throat tightened because he’d found the bruise without pressing hard. “What is it, then?”
“A business expense. You’re representing me, so I’m covering the cost of what that requires. If the firm sent Mr. Payton in my place, they would expense his meal, his car, and whatever tie he wore to appear less unpleasant than he is.”
A startled laugh escaped me.
Rafe’s face stayed serious, but something like satisfaction moved through his eyes. “You aren’t less entitled to practical support because you’re more accustomed to going without it.”
I looked down. Max was watching me solemnly, because he had seen me pick pennies up off the sidewalk and call it a budgeting strategy.
“I don’t want to owe you,” I said.
“You don’t.”
“That’s not how people usually work.”
“No,” he said, and there was a coolness in him then, but it wasn’t aimed at me. “But it’s how I work.”
I believed him. That was the truly annoying part. I believed him, and belief was a lot less convenient than pride.
Octavia picked up the cash. “Well, that settles that.”
“Nothing is settled,” I said.
“My cash register is satisfied, so it’s settled.”
Rafe took the garment bags from the counter before I could grab them. “Keep the change, Ms. Andreas.”
“Octavia,” she corrected.
“Octavia.”
She beamed. “Handsome and trainable. Quinn, I approve.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Instead of being offended, Rafe flashed a smile. “We should go before she decides to sell me something else.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Octavia said, “you’ll be back.”
He paused.
I grabbed Max’s leash. “And on that ominous note, we’re leaving.”
Octavia came around the counter to hug me. Her arms were small but fierce. “You’re going to be wonderful.”
“I’m going to avoid falling down in these shoes and call that a win.”
She kissed my cheek, then bent to kiss Max’s head. “You watch over her.”
Max gave a soft huff.
Rafe opened the door and stood aside to let us through.
I noticed it because I seemed to be doomed to notice everything about Rafe. He’d paid without making a show of the amount, he’d let Octavia order him around without bristling, had crouched for Max, had given advice that protected me from being dismissed by people who specialized in dismissal.
He was cold, maybe. Closed off, certainly. But he wasn’t cruel. He was, maybe, even a good man.
And that, I was discovering, was its own form of complication.
Outside, the light had gone gold against the shop windows, turning the mannequins into strange, elegant ghosts. Rafe handed the garment bags to his driver, then looked down at Max.
“We still need to discuss whether he has appropriate transportation for the event.”
I stared at him. “You’re worried about Max’s transportation?”
“He’s part of the strategy.”
“He’s a dog, not a wild pig. The subway will do just fine.”
“He is a decorated veteran in formalwear; he can’t ride the subway.”
Max stood a little taller.
I pointed at him. “Do not let this go to your head.”
Rafe looked at me then, and for once the thing he held back came close enough to the surface that I could feel its heat without understanding its shape.
“You both should arrive properly,” he said.
My humor reached for something quick and protective, but it came up empty for half a breath.
Then Max sneezed on Rafe’s shoe.