Page 52 of Detectives in Love
I straighten with a sigh. “Yeah. All clear.”
Xavier frowns, pulls out his phone, types something, then holds the screen up to me.
New rule: no talking in the bathroom.
I nod.
Back in the living room, the clock shows a little past six. Outside, fat snowflakes cling to the glass, swirling in the wind.
“So that’s it? We’re done with the bugs?” I ask, turning to Xavier.
“Why?” he says evenly. “Got somewhere to be?”
I roll my eyes. Even if Xavier won’t admit it, I know he doesn’t want me meeting with Katie Fairfax. It’s not jealousyin the romantic sense—more like a childish refusal to share me with anyone else. Funny, though a little annoying too, mostly because he’ll never admit it.
“No,” I say. “I just thought we could make some food, maybe watch something—since we’re stuck inside anyway.”
For a second, he looks caught off guard. Then says, “Sure. I can cook.”
I blink. “You?”
Silence.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Stop asking.” Xavier looks faintly offended. “I cook all the time.”
“Well, usually just eggs,” I say, fighting a smile. “And, uh…do you actually know how to make dinner?”
Xavier smirks. “Of course. Cooking isn’t complicated—it’s just measuring proportions and following steps.”
“Sounds like you know the theory,” I shoot back, grinning now. “But can you actually pull it off?”
Xavier shoots me a withering look and ignores the jab. Instead, he heads for the kitchen, then glances back. “Come on. I need you.”
I trail after him, amused. “What exactly should I do?”
“Well, usually when one person cooks, the other sits there and talks. So—talk.”
“Alright,” I say, dropping onto a chair. “What are you making?”
“Figure it out when it’s on your plate,” Xavier mutters, already focused.
He sets his phone aside, washes his hands, then studies the fridge with a critical eye. Humming under his breath, he pulls out ingredients one by one, lining them up on the counter. I watch, trying to figure out what’s gotten into him today.
“Xavier,” I say, keeping my gaze on him. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on?”
“What?” He barely glances up, turning a bottle of olive oil in his hands, inspecting the label like it’s some kind of code.
“Today. Yesterday. With you.”
He sighs. “How many times are you going to ask?”
“Until you answer.”
