Page 51 of Detectives in Love
I nod and get up on my own. We end up too close—almost chest to chest—and my breath catches.
Xavier meets my gaze for a split second, then reaches for the hem of my sweater and undershirt, lifting them both. We glance down together. Just below my ribs, three dark, round bruises mark my skin—definitely new. I try to keep my breath steady, even though Xavier’s proximity is messing with my head. I frown, forcing myself to focus, trying to figure out what I could’ve hit when I fell.
Then Xavier drops to his knees in front of me.
My brain short-circuits.
His breath grazes my stomach, warm against the sting of the bruises, and goosebumps rise in its wake. My legs feel suddenly unsteady, my pulse spiking. I swallow hard and look away—anywhere but down—because the sight of Xavier Ormond kneeling in front of me is doing things to my already scrambled brain I am absolutely not equipped to handle right now.
“Shit,” Xavier mutters, and I shiver as his fingers ghost over the bruises. “Does it hurt?”
He exhales slowly. Against my better judgment, my eyes flick down, meeting his. He’s already looking up at me, lips pressed into a tight line.
Then he says, softer, “I’m sorry.” His fingers skim over my skin, like he’s trying to soothe it. “I’m so sorry, Newt.”
“For what?” I manage, somehow, despite the weight in my chest and the heat crawling up my neck. I’m covered in goosebumps.
“For all of it,” Xavier says, bitter, his touch sliding higher to trace the scars the Carver left behind.
“It’s not your fault,” I say gently, curling my hand around his and easing it away from my skin before this gets awkward. I tug my sweater down, then, without thinking, rake my fingers through his messy curls. “Come on,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “let’s check the bathroom.”
I press a quick kiss to the top of his head and turn for the door, my heart pounding.
I don’t wait to see his reaction. If I do, I’ll lose my nerve. My pulse is a frantic rhythm in my ears, drowning out every rational thought.
I step into the bathroom and flick on the light. Memories from last night hit me all at once, and my stomach flips. The way he touched me—then and just now—so careful, like I was something fragile, leaves me a little dizzy.
Behind me, Xavier follows—quiet, but lighter somehow. There’s even a trace of color in his cheeks.
He catches my eye and presses a finger to his lips. I nod. After what leaked from last night, we could still be overheard.
We search in silence, methodical, checking every corner. Twenty minutes later, it’s clear: the bathroom’s clean. No cameras. No audio devices.
“Well, at least that’s something,” I say, pulling back the shower curtain with a grin. “At least Ernest gave us this—one tiny bit of privacy.”
Xavier doesn’t smile. He just shakes his head, frowning, then jerks his chin toward the door, motioning for me to follow, and heads back to his room. I trail after him.
“I don’t get it,” Xavier says, stopping in the middle of the room. “How did they even know about your injury? You didn’t tell anyone, right?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
Xavier narrows his eyes. “Then how did it end up online?”
I shrug, but the thought hits me mid-motion. “Wait…what if the bug was in our clothes?”
Xavier blinks, then strides to the laundry basket in the corner. He pulls out yesterday’s shirt and pants, checking them inside and out. I watch, holding my breath, but after a minute he tosses them back with a muttered, “Nothing.”
“Could’ve been on me,” I suggest.
“If I remember right, you were down to your underwear,” Xavier says.
Heat crawls up my neck. “Yeah, but my clothes were in the room.”
Our eyes lock. A beat of silence—then, at the same time, we bolt for the bathroom.
We tear through the laundry pile, tossing shirts, pants, even shaking out socks, but come up empty. Xavier runs a hand along the seams of my jeans, then scowls.
“Nothing.”
