Page 49 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“You know, I thought you’d only watch history documentaries or sit there with a notebook duringUniversity Challenge. Wait till everyone hears about this.” I pulled out my phone, grinning wickedly. “Did you know that Seb and Flynn spend half their time watchingBuffy? You know, when they’re not gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, or Seb’s not munching on Flynn’s neck? But maybe the three of you can start a cinema club together.”
“Put that phone away. Now.”
“Make me.” I waggled my eyebrows, already typing.
Maxwell took his eyes off the road just long enough to make a grab for my phone. I twisted away, pressing myself against the passenger door.
“Seriously, Thorne?” He kept one hand on the wheel but reached over with the other.
I batted his hand away. “Eyes on the road, Detective! You’re meant to uphold the law, not break it.”
“Give me the bloody phone.” He made another swipe.
I curled protectively around my mobile. “Not a chance.”
Maxwell’s fingers brushed against my side as he reached, and I flinched, letting out an embarrassing yelp.
His eyes flicked to me, a dangerous realisation dawning. “Are you… ticklish?”
“No,” I lied, clutching the phone tighter.
A wicked, rare smile spread across his face. “Interesting.”
The next time he reached over, his fingers deliberately dug into my ribs. I squirmed, an involuntary laugh bursting out as I tried to protect both my dignity and my phone.
“Stop it!” I gasped between laughs, my coordination failing as he found exactly the right spot between my ribs.
In my moment of weakness, Maxwell snatched the phone from my hand and slid it into his jacket pocket, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“That’s cheating,” I wheezed, trying to catch my breath.
“That’s strategy,” he corrected, a hint of smugness playing at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll get it back when we stop for food.”
I slumped back in my seat, but couldn’t maintain my outrage for long. “Fine. But at least tell me what music the great Detective Inspector deems acceptable for this journey.”
Maxwell’s answer was to press a button on the car stereo. The car filled with soaring voices—dozens of them—singing in what sounded like Latin, backed by a full orchestra.
“Oh my god,” I groaned, sinking lower in my seat. “Is this… like, church music? You’re such an old man.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“In your soul, you’re at least seventy.”
“It’s Mozart,” he said, as if that explained everything. “It’s classical.”
Freddy chose that moment to scamper from my lap onto the dashboard, where he began doing what could only be described as a zombie ferret conducting session, his tiny paws waving in time with the dramatic crescendos.
Maxwell’s eyes widened. “Get that thing off my—”
“Look! He loves it!” I crowed triumphantly. “Freddy’s got sophisticated taste! He thinks he’s conducting the London Symphony Orchestra!”
“Thorne, I swear to god—”
But I could see it—the smile he was violently fighting, the way his shoulders had loosened from their perpetual tension. For a moment, with the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, the ridiculously dramatic choral music playing, and Freddy’s bizarre little dance, it almost felt… normal. Like we were just two blokes on a road trip, not a wolf and a telepath who hated each other, heading toward my personal nightmare.
Instead, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let myself enjoy the moment while it lasted.
8
