Scent of Danger
Zoë murmured sympathetically, eyeing the bowl.
Eyes narrowed, Andrea inched it farther away. “No, she’s buying us tickets. On the Internet,” she said with mock anticipation, blue eyes wide. “And since I don’t have a job and as far as I know your job is mooching, there’s no problem, is there?” She shook her braided dark hair in disgust and popped the meringue in the oven, mentally reminding herself to put it on the top shelf so the ancient device wouldn’t scorch the bottoms. Carefully easing the frosted cake out of Zoe’s reach, she grabbed a fresh dishcloth and started to clean up.
“Sounds fun,” Zoë said absently, moving around her to lean on the mustard colored refrigerator. Her weave caught
Bab Populer