Page 115 of Detectives in Love
I raise an eyebrow. “They haven’t stopped,” I snort. “Now I’m a straight whoremonger who suddenly decided to wife up an old crush. Which is even more ridiculous.”
Xavier lets out a quiet, bitter-sounding huff but doesn’t argue. Instead, he turns back to the window.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, but the weight that’s been sitting in my chest all morning feels a little lighter now. Maybe Xavier isn’t as upset about what happened between us as I thought—maybe it’s just the article that’s thrown him. The idea steadies me, gives me a flicker of hope. And even if today was a one-time thing for him (which I really hope it wasn’t), maybe we can at least go back to what we were. Friends.
The thought stings, but I push it down. If it comes down to having Xavier in my life as just a friend or not at all, I’ll take what I can get.
If it were anyone else, I probably would’ve said something by now—tried to figure out where they stand. Was it heat-of-the-moment, or something they’d been thinking about? But with Xavier, it’s different. I don’t know how to start that kind of conversation with him. And the truth is, I’m not sure I want the answer if it’s the one I’m afraid of.
Then another worry creeps in—what if none of it meant anything because he wasn’t fully himself? What if the gasoline vapors are still clouding his head, making him act on impulses that aren’t really his?
A wave of panic tightens in my chest, and I glance at him. He looks exhausted, a little feverish—but not out of it. He knows where he is. Nothing about him seems off.
I let out a slow breath, trying to shake the tension off. The urge to say something—to clear the air, to ask, to know—presses hard against my ribs. But I swallow it down.
After a few more minutes of silent back-and-forth in my head, I finally blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Just to hear his voice. Just to ground myself in something normal.
“Our mom wants Monica and me to visit.”
Xavier blinks, turning his head back toward me.
“When?” he asks, studying my face.
“Next week,” I say. “But I’m not planning to go. Not until you’re better, at least.”
“You can go,” Xavier says quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” I smirk, though the edge of desperation slips through.
Xavier tilts his head, frowning like the thought never even crossed his mind. “Why would I want that?”
I shrug, suddenly feeling stupid. “I don’t know. Maybe you want some…ugh…space.”
The second I say it, I regret it. The words just hang there between us—their meaning obvious, heavy. Xavier’s expression shifts—like he knows exactly what I’m really asking.
“I don’t,” he says simply.
Neither of us looks away. The air feels thicker, like there’s something pulling between us. And then, without warning, my mind betrays me—Xavier under me, breathless, his cock hot in my hand, his face slack with pleasure.The memory hits me so hard my stomach knots. I blink fast, forcing it out of my head.
Xavier quickly looks away, like he’s just read my mind. Embarrassment flares in my chest—but then he asks, voice rough, “So why does she want to see you?”
I shrug. “She’s worried about me.”
“Why?” Xavier frowns, not following.
I clear my throat. “Probably because of what they’re writing in the papers.”
“About us?” His voice stays even, but his eyes sharpen as they meet mine.
I nod, my face heating.
Shit. Why did I even bring that up? Now it just sounds like I’m ashamed of what happened between us—or worse, like I regret it.
I scramble for something to say, but nothing comes. So I blurt it all out in one breath:
“Uh… she’s not conservative or anything, but she wanted grandkids, and Monica’s gay, so I was her only hope for offspring. That’s why she’s worried.”
I tack on an awkward smile like that’s going to help.
