Page 92 of Detectives in Love
“Oh…” she says, surprised, her cheeks turning pink. “That sort of rumor.”
I want to melt into the floor, my face burning. And I don’t even know why I care what she thinks.
Monica clears her throat. Bernard gives me a sympathetic look.
Fred laughs. “Where is Xavier, anyway? I wanted to chat with him. Quite the character, isn’t he?”
“He’s working,” I say tersely, pouring myself another glass of wine and knocking it back in one go.
Screw it. Easier to get through this drunk.
I pour myself another.
“Ah, yeah—he’s a workaholic, isn’t he?” Fred adds with a knowing grin.
I stare at him, deliberately avoiding Katie’s gaze—but I can feel her watching me.
Workaholic.
She remembers that’s exactly what I said about mygirlfriend.
“Right,” I say abruptly, pushing to my feet, my face hot. “How about dessert? Monica brought a cherry pie.”
“I’m in,” Bernard says quickly. Poor guy’s probably dying of secondhand embarrassment by now.
“Great, I’ll heat it up…”
“Need help?” Monica asks.
“No, I’ve got it,” I say with a forced smile and head to the kitchen.
My head’s pounding. I barely register whatever Fred yells after me.
Stupid idea. All of it. What the hell was I thinking?
I walk into the kitchen in a daze, turn on the oven, set a baking sheet on a tray, place the pie on top, and slide it inside. The low hum of the oven fills the silence.
I duck into the bathroom and let out a long breath, bracing myself against the sink, palms flat, trying to pull myself together.
A dull ache settles at the base of my skull. My heart pounds in my throat—an irrational, crushing anxiety tightening around my chest. Pretty sure I’ve had too much caffeine, and mixing it with wine was a terrible idea.
I splash cold water on my face and take a deep breath. Then I check my phone again. No texts. No calls.
The knot in my chest pulls tighter, pressing against my throat.
I open my messages, type outWhere are you?, select Xavier’s number, and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
I stand there by the sink, water still running, eyes on the screen.
Minutes pass.
Nothing.
I can’t hide out forever without being rude. With a sigh, I shut off the tap and step out of the bathroom.
As I head down the dim hallway back toward the kitchen, I nearly bump into Bernard.
“You okay, Newt?” he asks, giving me a quick once-over.
