She turns the camera back so she can see the screen and smiles at it. “I’ve got a number in my head I want to hit so I can write about it in my autobiography. It’ll be a bestseller. People love to live vicariously through books.”
“What does this one do for a living?”
“Who cares? Did you see those dimples? I’d like to jump into those babies and drown.”
“Sloane?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to be you when I grow up.”
She smiles and sends me a wink. “Get in line.”
Just then, Mojo lifts his head from Sloane’s foot and looks toward the dark window over my kitchen sink.
His ears prick.
All the fur on his scruff stands on end.
He lets out a low, rumbling growl and bares his teeth.
30
Nat
L
ooking at Mojo with her brows lifted, Sloane says, “Oh, no, that’s not freaky at all, doggo. What’s up wit
