Page 48

“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.