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“He’d be miserable,” she agreed, sounding a little miserable herself.

“Hey, can I call you back?” I’d been on a plane for four hours. I needed to find a restroom.

When I called Sloan back on my way toward baggage claim, we both seemed to have benefited from the break. Her voice sounded almost shy now. I thought for a second maybe she recognized me from my photos. Or maybe she just felt bad for being so pissed at me. Either way I was glad. If she was going to watch Tucker for me, we should at least be friendly.

We talked dog-sitting fees for a few minutes. Then I moved on to other logistics.

“Text me your address so I can send you a crate,” I said.

“A crate? Why?”

“He sleeps in his crate at night. If he doesn’t have it, he tends to destroy the house, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“He hasn’t destroyed anything except for the belt of my robe on the first day. And he sleeps with me, in my bed.”

I laughed. “I find it highly unlikely that he’s not chewing your furniture to a pulp. It’s his favorite pastime.”

Chair legs, the armrest of my couch, doorjambs—Tucker demolished all.

I found baggage claim and waited with the crowd from my flight as the carousel started going around, empty.

“He hasn’t chewed a single thing since the belt,” she said. “He’s a perfect angel.”

“Really?” I said incredulously.

She snorted. “I wouldn’t try and keep a dog who was destroying my house.”

“Good point. Well, I’m glad he’s being a gentleman,” I said, checking the time and watching as the first luggage came down the ramp. I had rehearsal in two hours.

“I still have scratches from him jumping on me through the sunroof. Did you teach him that, by the way?”

“Uh, no. Did he really do that?”

“You think I’d make that up? Hold on.” There was a pause. “Okay, go look. I just sent you my ticket.”

A picture message came through my phone. It was a ticket from the LAPD with a flip-flop magnet over the recipient’s information. The officer had detailed the entire event, sunroof and all.

I shook my head. “Unbelievable. He’s never done anything like that before.” He must have been out of his damn mind. “He’s a little high energy.”

“He just needs exercise.”

He’d probably gone stir-crazy with Monique. “Are you sure you don’t want the crate?”

“I definitely don’t want it. He sleeps with me while he’s here. That’s a hard rule for me. And I’m not giving you my address either. You could be a creeper.”

I snorted. “I’m not a creeper.”

“Yeah, well, that’s exactly what a creeper would say.”

There was a smile in there.

“How old are you?” I asked, suddenly curious.

She scoffed. “Well, that’s unnecessary.”

“What? Me asking your age? It’s the first thing I’d ask a dog-sitter in an interview,” I reasoned, though that wasn’t really what drove my interest. I liked her messages. They’d been kind of funny.

“Well, that would be illegal. You can’t ask someone their age on a job interview.”