Page 55 of Detectives in Love
“Sure.”
I turn to the sink, grateful for the excuse to keep my hands busy. But the texts are still rattling around in my head, a dull weight pressing against my ribs.
After a minute, Xavier glances over. “You’ve gone quiet.”
I pull it together, plastering on a casual smile. “Just thinking. Hey, tell me about this dish,” I say, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Xavier raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You know, like on cooking shows—where the chef talks about what they’re making,” I say, rinsing the last carrot. “Funny stories, random facts, whatever.”
He gives me a look. “You’re watching cooking shows now?”
“The Waverlys do,” I reply, a little defensive. “Come on, what’s the story behind your fricassee?”
Xavier pauses, thinking.
“Alright,” he says, placing the chicken fillets on a cutting board and picking up a knife. “Back at university, I had this professor—Paul Cassé. Taught French and speech. First-generation immigrant. Grew up with nothing but built this incredible academic career. Spent most of his life studying and teaching languages.” He slices the fillets, looking up at me nowand then. “He spoke nine fluently. Sometimes after class, I’d hang out in his tiny office, and he’d just ramble about the history of linguistics.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, smiling a little—Xavier sharing something personal like this feels rare. “Is this his recipe?”
Xavier nods, meets my eyes, then his face goes serious. “One day, he gave me this chicken fricassee recipe. The next day, he died of a stroke.”
“Oh god,” I murmur, heart sinking. “I’m sorry, that’s awful.”
I stand there, water dripping from my elbows, holding his gaze, my throat tightening at the thought of young Xavier hearing that.
Then his expression shifts—almost panicked. “No, that was a joke,” he says quickly. “I made it up.”
“What?” I blink. “Which part?”
“All of it,” he says, a flicker of guilt in his voice. “I didn’t think it’d actually upset you.”
I blink again, feeling a little dumb now. “So…there was no Professor Cassé?” I mutter, trying not to sound too annoyed.
“No,” Xavier says, stepping closer to wash his hands in the sink. “Cassé—fricassee. Didn’t it strike you as odd his name rhymed with the dish?”
As it hits me, I feel painfully slow. “I…didn’t catch that.”
“Sorry,” he says, offering an apologetic smile. “Wine?” He reaches for the bottle.
“Wasn’t that for the chicken?” I ask, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity.
“We only need a splash,” Xavier says. “The rest’s for us.”
“Alright,” I say, grabbing a couple of glasses from the cupboard. “But we have two bottles of red.”
“We’ll start with the white,” he replies, giving me a perfectly innocent smile.
“Start?” My cheeks flush, but when he nods, I don’t argue. Honestly, I could use a drink.
***
Forty minutes later, the food’s ready—and we’re a little tipsy. Well, I am, at least. I drain my third glass and plate the chicken, glancing over at Xavier. I’ve got to hand it to him—it actually looks pretty damn good.
“Hope it tastes as good as it smells,” I say with a grin.
Xavier gives me a small, cryptic smile. “I hope so too.”
