Page 12 of Detectives in Love
“Well, yeah,” Fred admits with a short chuckle, eyes flicking between the road and the mirror as the car weaves through traffic. “But I’m a political journalist, not a gossip hound, Mr. Ormond. Honestly, I don’t know much about you—just that you’re some famous detective and Newty’s…very close friend.” He pauses for effect, grin tugging wider. “And I only learned that fromThe Weekend Heraldover breakfast today.”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze, like he’s quietly calling me out for keeping it to myself.
Heat rushes to my face, and I feel Xavier turn his head toward me. I don’t look at him, keeping my gaze fixed on the side of Fred’s head.
“It’s just tabloid garbage, Fred,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “None of it’s true.”
“Right,” Fred says, his smile lingering just long enough to show he doesn’t fully buy it. “TheHeraldis mostly a joke. Over atThe Chronicle, we wouldn’t even wipe our shoes on it.”
“But you still read it,” Xavier says dryly, a hint of disgust crossing his face.
“And so do you,” I mutter under my breath. “Religiously.”
“Purely for work,” Xavier shoots back, brushing off my jab with a faint scowl.
Fred chuckles, clearly entertained by our back-and-forth. “I read it for work too—gotta keep tabs on the competition,” he says, glancing at me in the rearview. “Wild that one article’s got the press in such a frenzy. Probably has the readers stirred up too. If I were you guys, I’d lay low for a while.”
“We’ll try,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. Xavier’s gaze lingers on me, but I keep my eyes forward. Easier to ignore it than deal with whatever he’s trying to read off me.
The thought of being alone with him at the apartment, with all this tension hanging between us, makes my stomach twist. I can’t picture telling Xavier that the whole country now thinks we’re sleeping together because, A—I’ll turn red like the hopelessly lovesick idiot I am, and B—he’ll realize I hid the paper from him, which only makes me look like a child. Neither is an option.
Luckily, looks like we won’t be alone after all. As we turn onto Hickory Road, a group of journalists comes into view, crowding the front of our building.
“Damn it,” I mutter, though a flicker of relief sneaks in. I can put off the inevitable conversation a little longer.
“This your place?” Fred asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Keep driving.”
Fred nods, unfazed. “I know where you can lay low for a couple hours,” he says, casual, like this is just another Tuesday for him. “Want me to take you?”
Xavier stays silent, which I take as agreement. “Yes, thank you,” I say.
As Fred drives, my thoughts drift to Mr. and Mrs. Waverly, our elderly neighbors on the ground floor. The idea of them stuck in the apartment while that mob camps outside makes my chest tighten. I just hope they don’t get ambushed with awkward questions about Xavier and me.
“I wish they’d leave already,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
Fred chuckles, a little ironic. “You can hope. But journalists are persistent little bastards—it comes with the job.”
I don’t answer, just turn to look out the window as the city blurs past. What if they don’t leave? Should we book a hotel for a few nights? Leave the city for a couple of days?
For a moment, I even consider taking Xavier to my sister Monica’s—she’s got a spare room, and we could crash there if it comes to that.
But then it hits me. Monica’s going to hear about the article soon enough, and trying to convince her that Xavier and I are just work partners will be its own nightmare. She’s been teasing me about him ever since he saved me from the Carver.
A few minutes later, Fred pulls up in front of a tall glass building on Horton Road. It takes me a second to place it—I recognize it from last night, across from the bar where Fred and I were drinking.
Xavier and I step out, the cold air biting at our faces, and follow Fred up a short flight of stairs through the glass doors into a bright, open lobby.
“Welcome toThe Chronicle,” the receptionist greets us, her smile so fake she could be a robot for all I know.
Before I can respond, Xavier’s hand clamps around my elbow, spinning me toward him. His eyes blaze as he hisses, “He’s brought us to his newspaper.”
Fred catches it instantly and answers before I can. “Relax, guys. No one here’s going to bother you. We’re not a tabloid.”
Xavier narrows his eyes and lets out a sharp snort. “Is that why you run a spread of half-naked women in every issue?”
I glance at him, thrown. What the hell is he talking about?
