Page 151 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“You conducted a private antiquities auction.”

“Only briefly.”

He stared at me for another second. Then he laughed. A real laugh. Full and startled and bright enough that several people on the sidewalk turned to look.

I gaped at him.

Before I could process what was happening, his hands were at my waist, and he was lifting me off the ground.

I made a noise that didn’t belong in any professional setting. “Rafe.”

He spun me around, right there on the sidewalk outside an auction house full of people who probably had lawyers on speed dial. My hands landed on his shoulders, gripping hard, and for one dizzy second, the city tilted around us, Rafe’s face tipped up toward mine with joy breaking through every severe line.

The mirror was his.

The third relic was going home.

And Rafe was holding me as if I had personally given him the sky.

He set me down slowly. My hands stayed on his shoulders. His stayed at my waist. His laughter had quieted, but the joy remained, turning into something warmer, closer, far more difficult to explain away as professional enthusiasm.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

Mine had already gone to his.

A horn blared.

“Move it!” someone shouted from the curb. “Some of us are trying to get divorced before dinner!”

I jerked back, and Rafe released me at once. He looked toward the street with an expression that suggested honking at him was unwise but not currently worth a public incident.

I pressed both palms to my cheeks. “Nothing like New York City traffic to restore perspective.”

Rafe looked back at me, still smiling. “You were extraordinary.”

This time, I didn’t deflect fast enough.

The words went in. All the way in.

“Thank you,” I said.

A car honked again.

Rafe offered me his arm. “We should go.”

“Before someone else brings up divorce?”

“Preferably.”

I took his arm, because after everything else I had done that night, pretending I didn’t want to touch him was ridiculous.

As we walked toward the waiting car, I glanced back at the auction house. Luke Gildstein stood near the entrance, looking annoyed at everyone and no one in particular. Inside, the auction would continue. Money would move. Objects would change hands. People would keep pretending history was only valuable when it had a lot number.

But the shrine mirror was going home.

Rafe opened the car door for me.

I slid inside, still flushed, still trembling slightly from the faint pressure of his hands at my waist like a secret my body had decided to keep.