Page 17 of One Killer Night

My smile tries to stay suppressed but fails as we start walking again. “Wow, who hurt you.”

He nods in full acknowledgment, cracking one of those sexy smirks again.

“Her name was Princess Peach. She shit in my shoes and left me to live with my neighbor. I still have the heartbreak and the laser toy I got her.”

We share a matched laugh before he takes my hand again, guiding me around a group of teenagers stopped in the middle of the street, comparing their loot.

I look at him at the same time he looks at me.

“Your turn,” he prods, rocking his side into mine. “Where are you from originally?”

“Oh man, questions like this are so loaded because I don’t really know ...”

He looks at me, puzzled, as I keep explaining. “I’m adopted, so I’m working with very little info. All I know is that I came to live with the great Camilla and Stephen Monroe when I was twelve hours old.”

“Twelve hours old?”

I nod. “Well, kind of. I was left at a police station in Portland, Oregon, without a birth certificate or anything. It was by the grace of god that my mom and dad even saw me. They just happened to be at the station, filing a report about a stolen bike, and my mother found me in a bag by the door. She heard me, actually. She swears it was the only time I ever cried as a baby ... as if I was calling her name. It took them almost a year to actually adopt me, but I guess it was meant to be. I came here for college and never left.”

Silence spreads out between us before he chuckles. “Wow ... that’s something. But nothing I wouldn’t expect from the most interesting girl I’ve ever met. And I have to say I’m glad you told me because I’ve been trying to figure out how you and your sister were born to the same people. You don’t exactly look alike. At all.”

I can’t help but laugh because my sister is a gorgeous biracial treasure created by our Black father and Spanish mother, with naturally bronzed features that perfectly complement her warm brown melanin complexion. And we couldn’t look more different.

“Yeah, she’s a bio kid and a perfect blend of our parents. Evie was my single five-year-old’s wish written to Santa trying to manifest a baby sister. But we do get asked why I look like the national spokesperson for Irish airlines a ton. Which sometimes sucks because, unlike Evie, I’ll never know who I favor.”

Noah runs his fingers through his hair. “Have you ever thought of doing those genetic testing things? The ones that can link you to relatives?”

I nod. “Yeah, my mom even bought me one once. But ... I don’t know. It’s stupid because Iwishthat I knew more, but I kinda don’t want to know either. I just want my sister to be my sister and my mom and dad to be my mom and dad ... no extras or little asterisks next to their names. I guess I’d rather live in my current version of life and keep wondering if my eyes are only this pretty because they’re a mixture of people I’ll never know.”

Noah frowns and stops me as his eyes scan my face.

“Nah, as someone who’s only known you for five seconds, I can’t imagine you looking like anyone but you. Some people are meant to stand out as independent creations.” His finger feathers over my cheekbone. “I guarantee nobody’s ever had freckles on their cheeks exactly like this.”

Noah’s kind.

And he just called me “pretty.” In the slyest way.

My lips part, but nothing comes out, so I opt to tug him toward a cider stand, suddenly feeling more flushed under his stare.

“Your turn. Tell me about you ... sisters, brothers? Are you close with your parents? Give me the dirty details now that you know my life’s story.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand as he pulls out his wallet, holding it out to me so we can work together to grab some cash for the drinks.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he fills in. “I’m an only child from a boring town, and now I’m here, trying to make the most of my life. Now is the most interesting part.”

I raise my brows. Okay, onion, make me peel those layers.

“And your parents? Are they still in New Hampshire? Do you see them often?”

It’s impossible to miss how he straightens a bit and rolls his shoulders back, avoiding my eyes as he pockets his wallet before accepting his drink.

“I never met my dad, and my mom never talked about him. I lost her a few years back in a car accident.”

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, Noah.”

He smiles forgivingly at me. “No, don’t be. It’s fine. I’m good. It’s just not the razzle-dazzle I was going for to leave you impressed and awed by me.”

I take a sip, strolling next to him as our hands lightly swing.