Page 17 of My Hotshot

Aero arched an eyebrow. “One.”

“Four,” Sloane countered smoothly.

“You know how to negotiate, woman?” he drawled.

Sloane tilted her head. “Yes. Doyounot know that we’re buying four?”

Lottie and I exchanged glances as they volleyed back and forth. Their rhythm was comfortable, practiced. Married.

“One,” Aero repeated.

Sloane grabbed the snail, dog, dolphin, and T-Rex in one swoop. “Say one, one more time, and I’m getting the cat too.”

Aero scowled at her but didn’t speak.

“Wise choice,” Sloane murmured as she turned to the vendor.

“That’ll be one hundred,” the vendor said, placing the chosen creatures into a plastic bag.

Sloane held out her hand toward Aero expectantly.

He slapped a hundred-dollar bill into her palm. “You do know we haverealdogs back at the clubhouse that you can play with instead of buying a stuffed one.”

Sloane passed the cash to the vendor and grabbed the bag. “Yes, which is why we need to find the stall that’s selling homemade dog treats.”

“Fucking hell,” Aero muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Sloane linked her arm through his. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy this.”

“My wallet sure doesn’t,” he grumbled.

Sloane turned back and smiled at us. “Bye!”

We watched them wander off toward a jewelry booth.

“She was cool,” Lottie said, still watching them. “The guy was scary. But, like, hot scary.”

“Lottie!” I gasped.

She rolled her eyes. “IknowI’m a teenager, but I’m not blind, Mom.”

I sighed. There it was again. Her rapid climb toward adulthood. My never-ending descent into denial.

“That guy is your father’s age,” I muttered, and handed the vendor a twenty and a five as Lottie passed her the turtle.

Lottie shrugged and grabbed the bag. “Still hot.”

We moved on to the next stall—handmade journals—and, thankfully, Lottie didn’t insist on buying one. After that, donuts.

This stall was dangerous.

We settled on a half-dozen: two glazed, two chocolate-frosted, and two cinnamon cake. While I paid, Lottie’s phone dinged. She checked it quickly and frowned.

“Are we almost done?” she asked, typing quickly.

“I mean, there are maybe ten stalls left,” I said, glancing down the aisle.

She wrinkled her nose. “Tiff’s wondering if I can come over soon. Like… twenty minutes soon. They want to do a double feature.”

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