At the receptionist desk, Sloane was busy signing her name on the digital screen while I slipped my card back into my wallet. The smell of coconut oil and hairspray still clung to my hair.
As we turned to leave, I glanced at her casually and said, “By the way, I think someone’s been following me.”
Sloane blinked. “What?”
I pushed the salon’s glass door open as the warm California air brushed on my skin. “Yeah. A black SUV was trailing me last night after I left Alexander’s place.”
Sloane stopped mid-step. “You’re just telling me now?”
I shrugged, unlocking my BMW Z4. “It didn’t seem important. And I thought it was funny.”
“Not important? Funny?” she hissed, sliding into the passenger seat. “You think being followed isn’t important?”
I sank into the driver’s seat, tossing my b
