Page 88 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“You should know,” I said, “if you continue to perform at this level, I’ll be speaking directly to the partners about securing your position after the internship.”

Her smile faded.

“I intend it as support,” I said.

“I know.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze dropping toward the floor before returning to mine. “And I appreciate it. Truly. But if I get the position because you forced the issue, I’ll always wonder if I actually earned it.”

“You did earn it.”

“Maybe.” Her tone stayed light, but her eyes didn’t. “But there’s a difference between someone important saying, ‘She’s good, pay attention,’ and ‘Hire her.’ I need the first one. I don’t want the second.”

I wanted to argue; I was good at arranging outcomes once I decided they were correct, and in this case, the correct outcome seemed obvious. Quinn deserved the position. Payton & Wallace would be fortunate to have her. If they failed to see that, intervention would be efficient.

But the expression on Quinn’s face told me she wasn’t defending pride for its own sake; she was protecting her right to know what she had earned.

I thought of my father telling me, years ago, that help offered in the wrong shape could still become an unwelcome weight.

“Then I won’t force it,” I said.

Her shoulders eased.

“But I will write the strongest recommendation I am capable of writing.”

“That I’ll take,” she said, smiling again, a little steadier now. “I’ll frame it. Sleep beside it. Possibly have Max notarize it.”

“Can he notarize documents?”

“Not yet, but I believe in continuing education.”

Max rose at the sound of his name and leaned against her leg. She looked out at the dance floor, where the quartet was now playing something lively enough for more guests to dance. Couples clapped along in a loose circle, following a caller through a simple sequence that involved far more coordinated stepping than dignity usually allowed in black tie.

Quinn’s face brightened. I didn’t like the direction of that brightness.

“You want to leave?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I’d suggested burning the hotel down for warmth. “Leave?”

“Our objective is complete for tonight.”

“Our objective, yes. But we’re at a gala.”

“I’m aware.”

“A real gala.”

“Painfully aware.”

“There’s food, music, people pretending not to look at Max, and tiny desserts arranged like they have better retirement plans than I do.”

“That all seems like a reason to leave to me.”

She pressed one hand to her chest. “Don’t you enjoy anything?”

“I enjoy many things.”

“Name one gala thing you enjoy.”

I considered the room. “Leaving at the appropriate time.”