Page 56 of Deja Who
“Oh my God.” Archer actually staggered, right there on the stoop. “That is so hot. Oh my God.”
“And I think it broke. I can’t be sure. But I heard something break but was in such a rush I didn’t go back to see.”
“Oh. My.God.” He groaned and clutched at her. “You always have your phone, fuckingalways. You’re one of those. I can’t believe... Jesus, that’s hot.”
“Shut up,” she grumped, feeling horribly exposed, like the entire street could see she cared for this idiot. “Just... shut up.”
“Ohhhh, you’re so cute.” He clutched her to him and gave her a hearty smack on the lips. She wriggled, but not very hard. “And so hot.” Smack! “And so cute.” Smack! “I said that already.” Smack! “But it’s true.” Smack! “I can’t believe you rushed out of the house.” Smack! “And dropped your phone.” Smack! “And left a shoe behind.” Smack! “In your rush to get here.” Smack! “And show me your cuteness.” Smack! “And parked too close to a fire hydrant.” Smack!
“Get off.” She gave him a light shove (not—she was careful!—on a stab wound) and he backed off, his wide mouth twisting in a good-natured grumble. “I suppose I could call Detective Preston from here, if you’ll... oh.”
Archer, too, had gone quiet. Had obviously realized the only person the police would be calling Leah about.
“Oh.” She stood there a moment, thinking. “It’s... it’s her. It’s my mother. Isn’t it?”
“Well, unless you’ve got a dad I don’t know about...”
“She went to a sperm bank,” Leah replied absently. She tapped her bare foot as she thought. “The whole thing was for publicity. My birth. My childhood. It was to boost her career. I have no idea who my father is.”
“Okay.” Archer’s fingers, rubbing at the knots in her neck she didn’t realize were there. “Okay, so let’s call—”
“No.” Now that she could think again, she took him in at a glance and was relieved he was fully dressed. He was wearingknee-length navy shorts, a crisp, clean T-shirt with the slogan “Home is where the Wi-Fi connects automatically,” and the de rigueur loafers without socks. “Come on.”
He held up a finger, ducked back inside for his wallet, then shut and locked the front door and followed her amiably enough. “I assume you have a plan? Which involves fixing your awful middle-of-the-street parking?”
“It’s McMansion.” No need to even open her door; she’d obligingly left it open for herself. They both climbed in and buckled. “We’re going to her McMansion. It’s where the police are.”
“Oh. You sure?”
“No.”
But they went anyway.
