Page 81 of Detectives in Love
“I’m sorry for acting like an asshole,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing slow, uncertain circles against my skin. “Forgive me. Please.”
I just stand there, stunned.
Xavier Ormond apologizing feels like something out of a dream—definitely not real life.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, softer this time. Then he steps in, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me close until his chin rests lightly against my temple. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
I’m so thrown by all of it—his voice, his closeness, the familiar scent of him—that all I can do is nod and slip my arms around his waist. We stay like that for what feels like forever, his hand moving in slow circles against my back, like it’s second nature. Every part of me feels wired, buzzing from the contact.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” he murmurs, his voice low. “I was being an idiot. I’m really sorry.”
“Okay,” I manage, my tongue clumsy, heart pounding.
I wasn’t planning to forgive him this fast, but he caught me off guard. I have to remind myself to breathe, to calm down. This doesn’t mean anything—not really. It just means Xavier Ormond cares about our friendship. And somehow, that alone makes me stupidly happy.
He lets go, and I step back, trying to play it cool, hoping the low light hides how flustered I am.
“Any theories on the Bridge case?” I ask, grabbing my tea and sitting down at the table like that hug didn’t just knock the world sideways.
Xavier hesitates for a beat, watching me like he’s trying to figure out whether I actually forgave him or not. Then, after a silent evaluation, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits.
“I think Bridge was targeted because of his work,” he says finally.
“So it wasn’t random?” I ask, frowning.
He shakes his head. “The answer has to be with the clients he saw that day.”
I cross my arms, still too thrown by his apology to fully focus. “You think the cameras he installed are connected to his death?”
“Yes,” he says, more certain now. “We have the list of his appointments. We need to talk to all of them.”
“But we’ve already got their statements from the police,” I point out. “No one seemed to know anything.”
Xavier shrugs. “The police miss things.”
I nod slowly. “Alright. When do you want to start?”
“Not today,” he says. “I want to stay on Wakefield’s case for now. At least until it’s officially closed.”
“Okay,” I say—and then remember Selena Hast. I reach into my pocket, pull out the device she gave me, and hand it to him.
He eyes it, puzzled. “What’s this?”
“Remember that journalist—Selena Hast? She cornered me today and gave me that.”
He studies the blinking red dot on the screen. “Is this…a tracker?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s broadcasting my exact location.”
Xavier frowns, going quiet.
“Where’d she get it?” he asks eventually.
“She says someone sent it to her anonymously. It came with a note, but she didn’t say what it said.” I pause. “She says she’ll tell us more—if we agree to an interview.”
Xavier huffs, still frowning, then gives me a slow once-over. “Stand up and take your clothes off. One piece at a time.”
I blink, nearly choking on my tea. “What?”
