Page 123 of Detectives in Love
“Stop lying,” she snaps, her jaw clenching.
“Listen,” I say, glancing toward the door Xavier disappeared through, “I don’t have time for this right now.”
She watches me for a second, then nods like everything suddenly makes sense.
“Alright,” she says, turning away. But before she disappears back into Willand’s office, she adds, “I wish we hadn’t met again.”
And I know that’s the last I’ll hear from her. But right now, that doesn’t matter.
I push open the men’s room door—and freeze.
The space is small and sterile—white tiles, marble floor, cold morning light spilling through a narrow window.
And there, slumped against the wall, eyes closed, Xavier lies unconscious.
CHAPTER 13. LINES
“Xavier!”
I’m across the room in a blink, dropping to the floor beside him, panic crashing over me.
He doesn’t respond. I check his breathing—and let out a shaky breath when I feel it, warm against my hand.
I pat his cheeks. No reaction.
I jump to my feet, pull a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and soak it in cold water. Back on my knees, I press it to his face, wiping away the sweat.
“Xavier,” I say again, tapping his cheek with one hand while the other fumbles for my phone.
As soon as I dial, there’s a click, and a woman’s voice: “911, what’s your emergency?”
I explain what happened as calmly as I can while slipping an arm behind his back to keep him from slumping sideways. Then I unbutton the top of his shirt, trying to cool him down.
When the operator says the ambulance is on its way, I hang up and tuck the phone back into my pocket. Xavier’s still out cold. I shift, adjusting my grip to cradle him better, keeping him upright against me.
“Xavier,” I say again, giving him a gentle shake.
That’s when his eyes finally flutter open.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, trying not to let the relief—still sharp with panic—bleed into my voice.
“What happened?” he murmurs, looking up at me. His gaze is cloudy, unfocused.
“You fainted,” I say softly. “Don’t move—I called an ambulance. They’re on their way.”
He doesn’t even argue. Just rests his cheek against my shoulder, breathing shallowly, watching me through slow blinks. His lips are pale and dry.
“Do you want water?” I ask, shifting to get up—but his hand finds mine, stopping me.
“I’m sorry, Newt,” he says, hoarse and barely audible. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say, giving him a small smile. “You’re going to be okay.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
I snort, trying to keep the cold fear in my chest from spilling over.
“Don’t be dramatic,” I say. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”
