Page 131 of Detectives in Love
But he catches it. Sees right through me. His fingers tighten around my wrist, not letting me go.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, a little slurred. “I didn’t mean ever.”
He hesitates, and I look anywhere but at him, because if I meet his eyes right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll cry.
Then he adds, softer this time, “I meant don’t touch me today. I feel like a live wire, and it’s hard to…uh. I think I’ve hit my embarrassment quota for the day.”
That’s when I look at him again, my heart pounding. He meets my eyes for only a second—then suddenly lifts my hand, presses a kiss to it, and brings it to his cheek, closing his eyes as he holds it there, just breathing.
I want to hug him. God, I want to. But after what he just said, I don’t. I stay still, watching him, my pulse loud in my ears.
After a moment, he opens his eyes and lowers my hand, but he doesn’t let go. Just keeps holding it, his fingers brushing over my knuckles.
“Xavier,” I say softly, like a whisper might keep this moment from breaking. “Let me go talk to the witnesses. I can stop by Mrs. Bridge’s too—if you tell me what you want from her. But you stay here. Eat. Sleep.” I pause. “Please. I need you back to normal.”
I want him back—because I need him okay, but also because I need to know what’s real and what’s not. I need to know where we stand now.
He doesn’t argue, just nods and lets go of my hand. Then he yanks the sweater off, throws it to the floor, and climbs back into bed. I watch as he slides under the comforter and pulls the tray closer, starting to eat with the kind of focus that makes it look like he’s powering through a chore. I can’t help smiling at that.
As I leave the room, I pause at the door and glance back.
“Hey, mind if I pull the schedule from Bridge’s laptop? The one with all the addresses?”
“I’ll send it over,” Xavier says, without looking up.
“Thanks,” I say, and wait until his eyes meet mine. “I’ll be back soon, alright? Just call me if you need anything.”
He nods again but doesn’t say anything, so I leave, closing the door behind me.
In the living room, I grab my shoes and jacket, then check my phone. Xavier’s already sent the schedule. I pull up the first address in the taxi app and order a ride.
I wait by the window, not heading out until I see the car arrive—just in case the paparazzi are still lurking. But they’re not. So when I open the front door and step outside, the walk to the cab is smooth. No one stops me. Which makes sense—they got what they came for. I handed it to them myself.
As the car pulls away, I rest my head against the window, watching the buildings slide past.
Hopefully we crack the Bridge case by next week so I can finally take a break. From the journalists. The drama. The anxiety. The city.
Maybe visiting my mom isn’t such a bad idea. Sure, she’ll drive me crazy by the end of day one—but walking around my hometown, where no one but her gives a shit about the mess of my life, might actually do me some good.
For a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like if Xavier came with me. I don’t know how much of the Xavier from today I can trust—between the poisoning and the meds—but I can fantasize, just for now. Us walking around my hometown, getting bored out of our minds. Sleeping in, drinking coffee, reading, wandering through parks.
God, what’s wrong with me? Am I actually dreaming about a boring old man life?
I think I am. These past few days—weeks, really—have been a lot. Even for me. So maybe a little boring is exactly what I need.
I spend the whole ride lost in thought, and when the driver finally says, “We’re here,” it takes me a second to register that the car’s already stopped. I step out onto a quiet, narrow street lined with three-story buildings, check the address, and find the right entrance. Then I knock.
A few moments later, the door opens, and a man steps out—elegant, in his early fifties, dressed in a silk blue shirt and black pants.
“Mr. Colfridge?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“I’m Newt Doherty. I work with SCPD. I just have a few questions about Farewell Security, if that’s alright.”
He gives me a quick once-over, then steps aside to let me in. I walk past him, and he closes the door behind me.
“Why are you asking about Farewell again?” he says as I follow him down a narrow hallway lined with bulky candelabras. “Your people were already here—what else do you need?”
