Page 30 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“Chips!” Rory suddenly exclaimed, his head snapping up.
“What?”
“I need chips! It’s the only thing that will save me. Please?” His eyes were wide, pleading, as if he was a dying man and I had his cure.
Despite my headache begging me not to, I found myself saying, “There’s a good shop at the top of my road, which will still be open.” Part of me couldn’t believe my ears, but it was slightly my fault he’d thrown up.
“Yes. Perfect. Please. Thank you. Sorry for throwing up in your car.”
“This isyourcar!” I stared at him incredulously.
Rory blinked several times, looking around as if seeing the vehicle for the first time. “So it is.”
The drive to my road had been mercifully short, though Rory’s drunken commentary on my “driving like a pensioner” and his demands for curry sauce with his chips—despite having no money to pay for it—still echoed in my ears. I’d caved and bought it for him, then watched in equal parts horror and fascination as he’d tilted his head back and drank the remaining sauce like it was a premium whisky.
…best chips ever…never tasted anything so good…thank god for Maxwell…
His thoughts had been a steady stream of gratitude mixed with genuine euphoria over what was, frankly, mediocre food from the nearest chippy.
Now, as I pulled up outside my building, Rory was slumped against the passenger window, greasy fingers still clutching the empty chip wrapper, looking like he’d just experienced a religious awakening courtesy of Paul’s Plaice.
“Right,” I said, parking in the guest spot in my building’s small car park. The night had been a marathon of madness, and I was more than ready for it to end. “We’re here.”
To my surprise, Rory walked in a fairly straight line to the front door. Seemed like the chips had indeed saved him from the worst of his drunken state. My shirt still hung off his shoulders, the sleeves dangling past his fingertips.
…I could just pretend to stumble…maybe he’d even princess carry me…
The thought was so clear, so vivid, it might as well have been shouted directly into my ear. I cleared my throat loudly.
Rory’s head whipped around, eyes wide with horror.
…fuck, is he listening?…god, it’s so infuriating he can justlisten to my every thought…
He was right. It was incredibly infuriating—for me. I couldn’t simply turn it off. And the worst part? If I admitted I’d heard his thoughts, I’d only confirm his suspicions and increase his paranoia.
So I did what I always did—pretended I hadn’t heard a thing and carried on.
The elevator ride to my third-floor flat passed in uncomfortable silence. Rory kept shooting me furtive glances, then quickly looking away when I caught his eye. The close confines of the elevator made his thoughts louder, more intrusive—fragments about the stubble across my jawline, my hands, the way my T-shirt stretched across my chest, my smell.
I kept my expression neutral, pretending I couldn’t hear a thing.
Though, as I unlocked my door, a tiny part of me couldn’t help but enjoy being wanted. I kept almost everyone at a distance; my last casual relationship was almost a year ago. Between the demands of the job and the complications of being a telepath, dating had always been a minefield. It was nice to feel attractive for a moment, even if it was just drunken appreciation from someone who normally couldn’t stand me.
Plus, nothing would ever come of it. Rory’s attraction was obviously just harmless fun, fleeting interest that would evaporate with sobriety. Besides, I was straight. Had only ever dated women. The occasional stray thought about a man was just… normal curiosity. Nothing worth examining too closely.
“You can take the sofa,” I said, flicking on the lights to reveal my modest living room. Nobody had ever slept on it, but it looked comfy enough. “If you throw up on it, I will kill you.”
Rory stood in the doorway, suddenly looking very small as he clutched my shirt.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “For everything. The chips. Not leaving me at Undertone.”
Not leaving him? What?!
I nodded stiffly, uncomfortable with his gratitude. It was easier when we were sniping at each other.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” I said, to get him out of my sight. Then I raided my ottoman for spare blankets, pulling out the softest ones I owned. Why was I going to such lengths for Rory Thorne of all people? The man who’d been a thorn in my side since the moment we met? The man who had me saved as “Detective Dickface” in his phone?
Blankets all laid out, I grabbed the cushion from the armchair because it was plusher—I wasn’t beingnice, simply professional. I couldn’t have him complaining to Seb that I’d left him to suffer.
