Page 48 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“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.