15. Quinn
QUINN
EMERGENCY QUINN
By Saturday afternoon, I had officially become the sort of person who had weekend plans involving private antiquities auctions, which was alarming because my usual weekend plans involved laundry, grocery math, and trying to convince Max that the vacuum wasn’t a hostile aircraft.
Grand Thrift Oughta had clearly adjusted to this development faster than I had.
Octavia had three garment bags waiting when we arrived, all hanging from the brass rack beside the counter, my name scrawled on a Post-It.
I stopped just inside the shop, Max at my side, Rafe behind me, and stared.
“Octavia,” I said.
From the back, she called, “Don’t use that tone with me. I am an artist.”
“You’re hoarding formal wear now.”
“I prefer calling it curating opportunity.”
“You have three garment bags labeled Quinn.”
“Four, technically. One is labeled Emergency Quinn.”
Rafe’s gaze moved to me.
I closed my eyes. “Please don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
I snorted. “You were thinking loudly.”
That got me the smallest curve of his mouth, which I had, unfortunately, begun to track like weather.
A week ago, I had thought Rafe Virelli’s face had two settings: displeased, and about to be displeased.
Now I knew better. There was the narrow-eyed look he got when someone was wasting his time.
The slight softening when Max leaned against his leg.
The almost-smile he tried to pretend was only a mouth malfunction.
The full smile I had only seen a handful of times and was in no way collecting like cards.
I was productive and fulfilled, a woman on a professional upswing.
I had finished Helena Wallace’s memo early, a feat so satisfying I had considered printing the timestamp and framing it beside my law degree someday.
The Friday meeting with Georgiana Sorel had gone better than any of us had dared to admit out loud.
The sword wasn’t home yet, but the deal had shape now and an actual deadline.
And tomorrow night, I was attending a private auction with a dragon client who had fixed my building door, danced with my dog, and texted like plausible deniability was his native language.
My stomach had been unsettled all morning for reasons I refused to call anticipation.
Octavia emerged from behind a rack of velvet jackets wearing a black tunic, giant round glasses, and a measuring tape draped around her neck like a royal sash.
Her face lit when she saw Max. “There’s my grandpuppy.”
She pulled a paper twist of treats from her tunic pocket. Max sat before she asked, because he understood where standards ended and bribery began.
Only after feeding him did she look at me. “And there’s my auction girl.”
“I am not your auction girl.”
She looked past me. “Mr. Vineyard.”
“Octavia,” Rafe said with a polite incline of his head.
“He remembers.” Octavia clapped once. “Dressing room. Now. I have found options.”
“Found where?” I asked.
“In the world, Quinn. Keep up.”
That was when I understood. I looked at the garment bags again, at the careful labels, at the satin-wrapped hangers and the small matching boxes beneath them. Octavia hadn’t pulled a few things from existing stock. She had gone hunting for me.
Because she knew I had a “patron” now.
I followed her into the dressing area, while Rafe stayed out front with Max, examining a display of cufflinks as if they had offended him.
“Octavia,” I said, lowering my voice.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to be noble. I could feel it in the air. Very irritating.”
I stepped onto the little platform as she unzipped the first garment bag. “He’s not my patron.”
“Of course not.”
“That sounded nothing like agreement.”
She took out a black silk dress with a deep green embroidered jacket and held it up to me.
“He’s paying because he is the reason you require clothing appropriate to be surrounded by people discussing money and pretending they aren’t,” she said. “That part is simple.”
“Exactly.”
“The part where he looks at you like he’s trying very hard not to look at you is less simple.”
My face heated. “He does not.”
Octavia gave me a pitying little smile. “Darling, I have sold evening wear for first dates, fake dates, divorce dates, revenge dates, and one memorial luncheon that became a reconciliation by dessert. I know when a man is trying to behave.”
“It’s professional.”
“I’m sure he is suffering professionally. Arms up.”
I raised my arms, and she slid the dress over my head. The silk felt cool against my skin, fluid but not fussy. Octavia climbed onto her little stool behind me to work the zipper.
“He’s my client,” I said.
“You’re an intern. Interns don’t have clients. He’s the firm’s client.”
“That distinction doesn’t help as much as you think.”
“It helps me.” She tugged the zipper up. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.” I looked at her in the mirror.
She smiled at me, not teasing now. “I’m not saying chase him. But don’t lie to yourself so thoroughly that you trip over the truth when it finally stops in front of you.”
The zipper reached the top.
The dress was lovely. Black silk, clean lines, not quite floor-length. Paired with the cropped green jacket whose embroidery looked vintage without veering costume, it made me look composed and a little expensive in a way I didn’t have to apologize for.
Octavia adjusted the shoulder seam. “Well?”
I swallowed. “I hate when you’re right.”
“Everyone does. It’s my burden to bear.”
When I stepped out, Rafe turned from the cufflink display.
He said nothing at first, which was becoming a pattern I needed to discourage for my own survival.
“Well?” I asked.
His gaze moved over the outfit, but not in a way that made me feel undressed.
It was the same focused attention from the gala shopping trip, except this time I understood it better.
He was figuring out how well the clothing would work in the room it had to enter.
The signals it would send. Whether it protected me or exposed me.
“It’s right,” he said.
“Right-right or ‘won’t embarrass the firm’ right?”
His eyes came to mine. “Right as in you will not need to convince anyone you belong there.”
My ribs did something ridiculous. Octavia hummed in approval.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Don’t.”
The dress fit so well Octavia refused to let me try the others. “We’re not tempting fate,” she said, boxing up a pair of earrings shaped like small gold fans. “Fate has been generous, and I am not picking a fight with her before lunch.”
Rafe paid before I could stage even a symbolic protest.
I waited until Octavia was wrapping the jacket in tissue, then said, “You know, one day I’m going to beat you to the register.”
“You won’t,” Rafe said.
“See, that tone makes me want to try harder.”
“That would be inefficient.”
Octavia cackled.
I pointed at Rafe. “You’re becoming popular here, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’ll try to be less agreeable.”
“Too late. Octavia’s already accepted you into the ecosystem.”
“I did no such thing,” Octavia said. “He’s on probation.”
Rafe accepted the shopping bag from her. “I will endeavor not to disappoint.”
Octavia sighed. “Manners. Very inconvenient.”
Outside, the afternoon was warm and bright, the sidewalk swarming with Saturday foot traffic. Rafe’s driver waited by the car, but Max had already turned toward the cross street, ears lifting.
I followed his gaze and smiled. “There’s a dog park two blocks over.”
Rafe looked down at him. “He knows?”
“He always knows. It’s terrifying. I can hide a pill in chicken, but I can’t hide proximity to fenced recreation.”
Max looked up at me, tail moving once.
“I’m taking him for a quick run before I head home,” I said. Then, because my mouth had apparently stopped consulting the proper committees, I added, “You can come if you want.”
Rafe didn’t say anything, and I immediately regretted the offer. Not because I didn’t want him there, but because I did, which was very bad.
“You don’t have to,” I said quickly. “I just mean… since you’re here. And he likes you. Against my advice.”
Rafe and Max looked at each other. “I’ll come.”
“Oh.” My heart did a humiliating cartwheel. “Okay.”
Rafe handed the shopping bag to his driver. “We’ll walk.”
The driver didn’t react. Rafe’s staff seemed to have been trained for impossible things like “the dragon has elected to visit a public dog park after buying an intern clothing.”
The dog park was narrow but well-maintained, tucked between two buildings with trees shading one end and benches worn smooth by years of exhausted owners.
A pair of terriers argued near the gate.
A gray poodle in a red harness ignored everyone with the serenity of inherited wealth.
Max waited patiently while I unclipped his leash.
“Frei,” I said, then he stepped into the main run and shook himself.
Rafe watched him. “He changes.”
“Off duty,” I said. “Sort of. He’s never fully off, but this is as close as he gets.”
I pulled a tennis ball from Max’s bag. It was battered and missing fuzz in one spot, which only made Max love it more. Before I could throw, Rafe held out his hand.
“May I?”
“You want to throw the ball?”
“Yes.”
I handed it over. “Be careful. If you throw badly, he’ll know.”
“I am unlikely to throw badly.”
“Mm. Max will be the judge of that.”
Rafe stepped forward, studied the length of the dog run, then threw the ball. It sailed cleanly over the heads of two confused spaniels and landed near the far fence.
Delighted, Max launched after it.
I stared.
Rafe’s mouth curved and a real grin broke through, quick and pleased, and it did absolutely obscene things to his face. He looked younger. Almost boyish, if a man could be boyish while wearing a coat that probably had its own insurance policy.
“Well,” I said faintly. “That was rude.”
He glanced at me, still grinning. “Rude?”
“Some of us have been throwing with mortal arms for years.”
“I can throw softer.”
I narrowed my eyes playfully. “Don’t patronize my limitations.”
Max returned with the ball, tail high, eyes bright. He dropped it at Rafe’s shoes instead of mine.