Page 17 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
Priya’s response pinged back instantly.
Priya
No, because I don’t want Emma to become vampire food
A laugh burst from my chest as I slid behind the wheel of my not-so-trusty Ford Cortina. Those two had finally got their act together after four months of Priya’s not-so-subtle flirting. Flynn had persuaded Emma to get a job at Fat Cat’s, and then Priya had repeatedly dropped in, attempting to buy Emma cups of tea so she could read her leaves.
God, it had been painful to watch.
Nowadays, I couldn’t help but miss having Priya as my designated single friend. We’d been close since the day we met. She’d made an effort to make me feel welcome at Killigrew Street because Kit had been too on edge about myarrival to do that himself. Priya may not have been all that powerful for a “Gifted practitioner”—her skills basically amounted to teaspoon telekinesis—but she had a heart of gold. For the people she liked, at least.
After Issac died, she’d tried her best to fill the hole the absence of my best friend left in my life. For ages, she’d shown up at my door almost every other evening with food and terrible movies. But post-Emma, I was now often stuck with Kit when I needed company. I loved my brother, but he annoyed the hell out of me.
Though being alone was worse. The silence got too loud, thoughts spiralling into dark places.
I arrived two minutes late, thanks to having to slow down for the three speed cameras en route.
Maxwell emerged from his building, and my brain short-circuited.
Holy shit.
Detective Dickface was wearingjeans. Not just any jeans—dark, well-fitted ones that hugged his thighs in ways his usual suit trousers never did. He’d paired them with a simple black T-shirt under a navy button-up left casually open, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing forearms I’d never seen before.
His usual glasses were absent, and oddly, I missed them. They suited his Mr. Serious Detective act.
I clutched the steering wheel, shocked by my own thoughts. What was going on? My earlier interactions with Maxwell had clearly muddled my brain. The way he’d brought me coffee—Fat Cat’scoffee, of all things—and the compliment about being hotter than Ezra, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty it had knocked me sideways. For about ten blissful minutes, I’d almost forgotten I was supposed to hate him. I’d caught myself actuallyenjoyinghis company, teasing him about his underwear choices, like that was an appropriate thing to do.
Get it together, Rory. You can’t trust him. Not even a little bit.
Maxwell yanked the passenger door open, wincing at the ear-splitting creak of rusty hinges. He slid in cautiously, as if the seat might collapse beneath him.
“When was this thing manufactured? The Dark Ages?”
“She’s a classic.” I turned the key, and the engine coughed to life after three attempts.
Maxwell pulled the door shut, only to meet resistance. He tried again, more forcefully, then stared at me, eyebrows raised. Without his glasses, his super thick, long dark lashes were more apparent.
“It doesn’t quite shut properly, but it’s fine. Honest.”
“This thing needs to go to the scrapyard,” he muttered, gripping the door handle as I pulled away.
I glanced over, noticing his freshly shaved jaw and catching a whiff of a different cologne than he usually wore. Something woody and spiced that my brain couldn’t help but take note of. The scent clung to the collar of his shirt, crisply ironed. Bloody hell, he smelledgood.
Not that he didn’t usually smell good, to be fair to him. Underneath the lemongrass he usually wore, he had this distinctive smell that somehow reminded me of raindrops—the earthy, fresh scent that lingers after a storm breaks the heat. It was… annoyingly nice.
Oops.I’d been silent for too long. Was he reading my thoughts right now, listening to me obsess over how he smelled like a bloody summer rainstorm? God, how embarrassing. My cheeks burned at the thought.
I cleared my throat. “Well, Seb’s promised me a new car as soon as I can go a full month without a single parking or speeding fine.”
“So… never, then?”
“Fuck off.”
My skin prickled as Maxwell’s eyes lingered on me, taking in my mesh shirt visible beneath the oversized burgundy overshirt, the eyeliner, my attempt at styled hair.
“What?” I challenged, oddly self-conscious under his scrutiny. “I figured if Undertone is a bust, I’ll go out to meet some mates after. You said you had to be home by eleven anyway.”
Maxwell grunted in reply.
