Page 190 of Detectives in Love
“Good.” A faint smile curves his lips. “Kind of hungry.”
“Yeah, me too,” I admit. “My stomach’s been growling for hours. But I’m not really up for cooking. I was thinking more…lying in bed all day.”
“You can rest. I’ll cook,” Xavier says as he leans closer, his hand brushing my thigh, sending a shiver through me.
“Tempting,” I rasp, my throat suddenly dry. “But takeout sounds better. That way you can lie in bed with me.”
His eyes darken, searching mine—until the corner of his mouth quirks, like he knows exactly what I mean.
“Takeout, then,” he says, swallowing as his hand finds mine on the seat between us.
The steady weight of his gaze makes my gut buzz with arousal, my pulse hammering in my chest. I force myself to look out the front window, just to clear my head. The last thing I need is to pitch a tent in the back of a police car—with Willand and Crowley as the audience.
“Xavier, your uncle called today,” Willand says, flicking a glance at us in the rearview mirror.
“What did he want?” Xavier asks, turning toward him—though his fingers are still idly playing with mine.
“He tried to get in touch with you. Said neither of you picked up your phones, so he was worried.”
Xavier snorts. “Just ignore him.”
“Shit,” I mutter, suddenly remembering Ernest called me too. “I forgot to call him back.”
“Don’t you dare,” Xavier says, fixing me with a look that brooks no argument. “If you start replying, he’ll bug you every day—just like he bugs Willand.”
“You know I can’t ignore him,” Willand cuts in, shooting another quick look at us in the mirror.
Xavier exhales, annoyed. “Why the hell not?”
“He’s…persistent,” Willand says, a thread of exasperation in his tone.
“He doesn’t have friends, that’s why,” Xavier mutters. “Please don’t encourage him. I’ll text him later.”
Willand nods. “Alright. I already told him you’re both fine, so I doubt he’ll bother you today.”
Xavier snorts. “Then you don’t know my uncle.”
***
The crowd on Hickory Road is so large that Willand actually considers calling for backup before we even get out of the car. But Xavier and I talk him down. I can’t stomach another fifteen minutes trapped in the back seat, so we decide to push through—like before.
“Mr. Doherty, how are you feeling?”
“Mr. Ormond, how do you feel about Mr. Doherty saving your life?”
“Tell us about the shooter!”
“Mr. Doherty, what about Mr. Ormond’s latest confession?”
The barrage hits the moment we step out. Cameras flash, voices overlap, microphones and recorders thrust in our faces while fans shriek, snapping selfies and begging forautographs. Willand and Crowley flank us, arms out, forcing a path through the chaos.
As we reach the steps to our building, a flash of pink catches my eye. Selena Hast—already smiling at me like we’re old friends.
“Newt, hello,” she chirps, perking up. “How are you feeling? Did you see—I called you! I’d love to set up an exclusive interview with you and Xavier, whenever convenient.”
“No thanks,” I say flatly over Crowley’s shoulder.
“My interview with you aired last night—exclusively on Romford’s website,” she says, beaming. “Haven’t you seen it?”
