Page 53 of Detectives in Love
“I told you—nothing’s going on.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
“Okay,” I sigh, crossing my arms.
Xavier flicks me a glance. “Wait—are you mad at me now?”
I exhale. “No, Xavier, I’m not mad at you.”
“You always cross your arms when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I say honestly, clearing some space on the table for the ingredients. I grab the plates with what’s left ofour half-eaten breakfast. “You’ve just been surprising me a lot lately, that’s all.”
Xavier freezes, bag of flour in hand, looking so genuinely confused that I instantly feel a twinge of guilt. “Sorry?” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say, softer this time, already regretting I brought it up. “So…are you going to tell me what you’re making? Because right now it looks like you’re just throwing in everything we have in the fridge.”
He perks up. “You can guess, if you want. We’re missing tarragon and white wine.”
I glance at the ingredients spread across the table and the counter—chicken, flour, cream, butter, olive oil, salt and pepper grinders, an onion, four carrots, and a bag of mushrooms.
“Uh…mystery stew?”
“Brilliant deduction, Newt. Nailed it.”
“Wait—seriously?”
“No. Chicken fricassee with tarragon.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you just making this up right now?”
Xavier feigns offense, shooting me a mock glare before his lips twitch into a smile. “How dare you.”
“How dare I?” I snort. “Okay, Chef Ormond, where exactly am I supposed to find tarragon and white wine?”
“Can you go fetch me some, please?”
“Oh sure, I’ll just pop upstairs and grab my secret stash,” I say dryly. “I keep some under my mattress, right next to my emergency caviar.”
Xavier arches an eyebrow. “Interesting your mind went straight to the mattress. You hid the newspaper there too. Were you stashing porn mags under it as a teen or something?”
Heat rushes to my face. “No, I wasn’t!”
He smirks, lips twitching. His voice drops, almost teasing. “I was kidding—but I love that color on you.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, fully flustered now. “Just go to the store. We don’t have tarragon or white wine.”
“The journalists are probably still camped outside,” Xavier says, tipping mushrooms onto a plate. “Picture tomorrow’s headline—Xavier, Newt, and Tarragon: A Love Story.”
I try to keep a straight face, but it’s useless. We both crack up.
Once I catch my breath, I suggest, “Maybe the Waverlys have some? They always have herbs. I could ask them.”
“I’ll go,” Xavier says abruptly, shooting me a look. “Mrs. Waverly will have you stuck there for an hour. You never know how to say no to that woman’s podcasts.”
I snort. “I actually like talking to her.”
