Page 94 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“You didn’t.”

“Max saw.”

“Max is not a reliable witness.”

“He is the most reliable witness.”

“He can’t testify.”

“Which, as established previously, is a flaw in the legal system.”

I smiled before I could stop myself.

The teasing in her expression slipped into something quieter. The music slowed further, the final notes of the melody drawing out. We were near the edge of the dance floor now, partly shielded from the room by a large floral arrangement. No one was paying us any particular attention. Or perhaps they were and I simply didn’t care.

That was new.

When the song ended, Quinn’s hand was still in mine, mine was still at her back. Neither of us moved.

Applause rose gently around us, but it sounded distant. Quinn looked up at me, her lips parted as if she’d been about to say something and thought better of it. The light caught the gold of her earrings and the warmth in her eyes. She was close enough that I could see the place where one strand of hair had loosened near her temple, close enough that if I lowered my head⁠—

No.

The thought stopped there, but stopping it didn’t erase it.

Her gaze dipped to my mouth. My hand tightened once against hers before I made it relax.

“Quinn,” I said.

I didn’t know what would have followed.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the quartet chose that exact moment to surrender the floor to the event DJ, who had either terrible instincts or an admirable commitment to chaos.

The opening notes of “Y.M.C.A.” burst through the ballroom.

Quinn blinked.

I closed my eyes.

Across the room, Miriam squealed, which made Max bark.

Then Quinn started laughing.

She laughed so hard she had to let go of my shoulder and press a hand to her mouth. The spell of the moment didn’t break so much as change shape. The longing remained, so did the warmth. But now it had somewhere to go that wouldn’t ruin us both in the middle of a charity gala.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing. “That was the most aggressive musical intervention I’ve ever experienced.”

“It was an assault.”

“It was a public service. We looked too serious.” She studied my face, then softened. “Fine. I guess I’ve tortured you enough for one evening.”

“It wasn’t torture.”

Her smile returned. “No?”

“No. More like being forced into fresh air after insisting the window should stay closed.”

“That was dangerously close to being poetic.”