Page 76 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

The volunteer glanced over her shoulder. “Miriam told us to keep an eye out for him.”

My brain made a small, tidy click.

“Miriam?” I asked.

“Miriam Sorel,” she said. “Gala co-chair. Dr. Sorel’s wife. She was the one who approved the request for a retired military dog to attend.” Her smile turned conspiratorial. “I think her exact words were, ‘If anyone complains about a distinguished veteran at a service-dog benefit, send them to me and I’ll ruin their evening.’”

“Oh,” I said, delighted before I could stop myself. “I like her already.”

“I’m sure you will. She’s right over there.” The volunteer lifted one hand, then hesitated. “Actually, she’ll be mad if I don’t tell her Max is here. Can I tell her?”

“Please do. Max lives for tasteful admiration.”

The volunteer laughed again and slipped through the crowd.

I let out a slow breath. This wasn’t victory. Not yet. This was a door cracking open in a hallway that might lead to another locked door. But it was something, and something was my favorite raw material.

Across the room, Rafe stood near the edge of the silent auction gallery, pretending not to watch me.

He was very bad at it.

Rafe’s version of “not watching” still involved his full attention angled in my direction like a compass needle. He held a glass he hadn’t touched. His shoulders were set, his face composed, his whole body carefully still. If anyone else looked at him, they probably saw wealth and command and the kind of masculine restraint people wrote profiles about in magazines with heavy paper.

I saw a powerful man making himself stay put because I’d asked him to.

That did something extremely inconvenient inside my chest.

“Don’t look smug,” I whispered to Max.

Max looked incredibly smug.

The volunteer returned with a woman who immediately made the room around her seem a little less interested in behaving.

Miriam Sorel was younger than her wife, probably early forties, with warm brown skin, dark hair cut just below her chin, and a cobalt dress with sculpted sleeves that looked dramatic without becoming theatrical. Her shoes were gorgeous, metallic, and low-heeled enough to suggest she respected her arches. A vintage brooch shaped like a sitting dog gleamed at her shoulder, tiny sapphire eyes catching the light.

She wasn’t polished in the usual exhausted way. She looked thoughtful, stylish, and alive, which in a room full of careful people felt almost rebellious.

Her face lit when she saw Max, but she stopped a respectful distance away. “May I?”

I nodded. “Thank you for asking. He’s friendly, but he likes an introduction. Max, frei.”

Max stood, stepped forward, and sniffed her offered hand.

Miriam held still, letting him decide.

“Well, hello,” she said softly. “You’re even more handsome than promised.”

Max sat and lifted one paw.

I hadn’t cued him.

The absolute politician.

Miriam’s delight was immediate and genuine. She took his paw carefully, her laugh warm but not squealing. “Oh, I see. Formal manners for formal wear.”

“He’s been unbearable since the first compliment.”

“As he should be.” Miriam released his paw and looked up at me. “You must be Quinn Bradley.”