Detectives in Love, page 31
Then I glance toward the stove. Bacon sizzles in the pan.
“What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” he says—and that’s when I notice the two plates on the counter. Eggs, avocado, toast. Everything already plated.
“I was going to bring it to you,” Xavier adds, looking away as color rises in his cheeks again.
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask, smiling.
He nods, a little stiffly, the blush creeping down his neck now. I can see how unsure he is, and something about it is so endearing I can’t stand it. So I close the space between us, slip my arms around his neck, and pull him down.
His breath hitches—like all his focus narrows to just me.
I kiss him. His arms come around me instantly, wrapping tight around my bare torso as he kisses me back.
“Morning,” I whisper when we part.
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine, eyes closed, his breath warm between us—and he doesn’t let go.
“Are we good after last night?” I ask—surprised by how direct that comes out. It’s not how I usually talk to Xavier.
“You tell me,” he whispers, eyes still shut, like he’s bracing for the answer. His thumbs trace slow circles against the small of my back.
“I’m amazing,” I say—and he opens his eyes, searching my face like he needs to see it to believe it.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly—uncertain in a way I rarely see from him.
“Yes,” I say, laughing a little. Then I kiss him again—firmer this time, with intent.
It’s not a good morning kiss anymore. It deepens fast, turning hungry in seconds. Xavier exhales hard against my mouth, arms tightening around me, his hands finding my ass and pulling me in. His tongue slides against mine—slow, hot, greedy—and just like that, we’re gone again.
His hands grip my hips, grinding us together, and I feel how hard he is. We both exhale—ragged, in sync. The fact that Xavier gets this turned on just from kissing throws me a little. And yeah—it’s insanely hot.
Then he turns me around and backs me into the counter, his mouth dragging down my neck. One hand slips into my boxers and wraps around my cock. I’m hard too—obviously—and the way he touches me makes my knees buckle.
“Fuck,” I breathe, as his thumb slides over the head. “X-Xavier…”
“Newt,” he murmurs against my skin, leaving another bite on my neck. Of course he does. That’s already a thing with him.
“Ah—” I moan, my body buzzing with arousal, but then something flickers at the edge of my vision. I turn—instinctive—and freeze.
There’s someone standing in the living room doorway.
A man in a suit.
Ernest. His face unreadable, caught somewhere between disbelief and barely contained fury.
“Xavier…” I mutter, trying to pull away.
“Yes?” he murmurs, distracted, still at my neck—until he looks up and sees my face. His whole body tightens. “What is it?”
I nod toward the doorway.
He turns—sees Ernest—and finally lets go of me with a low, irritated breath.
Ernest doesn’t move. Just stands there, stiff and silent, eyes locked on us like he’s still trying to process what he’s seeing.
Xavier shifts in front of me, blocking Ernest’s view—probably very aware I’m still hard, though that’s fading fast now.
“Were you born in a cave, Uncle?” Xavier says, a little sharp. I can see the side of his face and neck burning red. “Ever heard of knocking?”
“Your lock is broken.”
“How about calling ahead?”
“You ignore my calls,” Ernest replies, nose slightly up, lips curled with faint distaste. “I heard about the attack. You can imagine my concern.”
“How did you hear about it?” Xavier asks, crossing his arms. “I thought we got rid of all your bugs.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ernest says, voice flat. “I’m just glad to see you’re still alive.”
There’s a long, awkward pause. Then Xavier says, voice dry, “Did you get fired or something? You’ve been around a lot lately.”
“I can’t get fired from my own company.” Ernest’s mouth tightens. “Now, can we speak for a moment?”
“We are speaking,” Xavier says.
“Alone. With Newton.”
“I’ll go,” I say, already starting to move—but Xavier slides an arm in front of me, stopping me where I am.
“Absolutely not.”
Ernest’s gaze lingers on the space between us. “May I ask what this is?”
“You may not,” Xavier says.
Ernest exhales—slow, almost patient. “I have a right to know. You’re my heir. That might affect things.”
“I didn’t ask to be your heir,” Xavier says, his voice flat with exhaustion. “In fact, I never wanted to be.”
Ernest looks almost offended, his jaw tightening like he’s been slapped. Then his gaze shifts past Xavier to me—as if I’m the reason his nephew wants nothing to do with him.
“Didn’t you have an engagement lined up with your ex, Mr. Doherty? Or are you planning to marry my nephew now? Hard to say, since you don’t seem to know what you want.”
The irritation hits before I even open my mouth. “I do know what I want,” I say, arms crossing. “I’m marrying your nephew.”
The second the words leave my mouth, both Ormonds freeze—then turn to stare at me, equally stunned. Xavier looks like he might either kiss me or slam me into the counter again. Maybe both. Ernest looks like he wants to slap me.
“Let me speak with you privately, Mr. Doherty,” Ernest says, not bothering to hide his irritation.
“No,” Xavier snaps again, but I catch him by the elbow.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe he’ll leave us alone then.”
Xavier sighs, hesitates—but doesn’t argue.
I leave him in the kitchen and step past his uncle into the living room, pulling the door shut behind us. I’m acutely aware that I’m still in my boxers. Oh well—being half-naked while Ernest Ormond lectures me is apparently becoming a recurring theme.
He walks to the front door, putting distance between us and the kitchen, then turns back and folds his arms. His expression stays composed, but his eyes burn.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asks. “Are you two trying to mess with me?”
“We’re not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest—mirroring his posture without meaning to. Mostly just trying to cover myself up a little.
“Then why are you doing this?” Ernest presses, like he hasn’t heard me at all. “Is it for PR?”
I snort. Not even dignifying that with a response.
“Do you want money? We can talk about it.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, wincing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Ernest snaps. “I’m trying to protect my nephew.”
“He doesn’t need protection,” I shoot back, heat rising in my chest. “Not from me. And I’m not after his fame or his money.”
“Then why?” he demands. “Why are you doing this?”
I blink, my lips twitching in something that isn’t a smile. There’s nothing funny about it.
“You know why.”
Ernest exhales hard, the tension shifting in his posture. He uncrosses his arms and curls his hands into fists at his sides.
“You don’t understand,” he says. “He’s not like you. He’s…different. And you’re going to break his heart.”
I almost laugh—because wow, Ernest Ormond actually cares. He’s not just here to be a thorn in Xavier’s side; he’s trying to protect him in his own twisted way.
“That’s…surprisingly decent of you,” I say, smiling now, genuinely. “But Xavier and I can handle it ourselves.”
Ernest doesn’t flinch. He just looks at me for a moment, then says, completely deadpan, “Are you two having sex?”
I nearly choke. Seriously? What kind of question is that?
“I’m not answering that,” I say flatly.
He hesitates, then—like he can’t quite believe he’s asking—says, “Do you love him?”
But I don’t get the chance to answer—because the kitchen door bursts open, and Xavier storms in, eyes blazing.
“OUT!” he shouts. “Get out!”
Before Ernest can get another word in, Xavier swings the front door open and all but shoves him into the hallway. Ernest—composed, dignified, and far too self-important for this kind of handling—doesn’t stand a chance. The moment he’s out, Xavier shuts the door and leans back against it, like he needs a second to recover.
“Were you listening?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Xavier glances over, guilt flickering in his eyes—then his gaze drops to my bandaged thigh.
“How’s your leg?” he asks.
“You already asked,” I say, my lips twitching at the change of topic. “It’s fine. But I need to take my pills. Come on—let’s eat first.”
He just looks at me for a moment, then nods and steps away from the door, giving it a quick glance, like he half expects Ernest to come crashing back in.
“Let’s go,” I say, reaching for him.
Xavier looks down at my hand like I’ve just done something miraculous—then takes it. And my heart stumbles a little—because he’s so touch-starved, even something this small seems to undo him.
In the kitchen, he plates the rest of the food, and we sit down to eat. It feels almost domestic—the quiet, the way he keeps sneaking glances at me like he’s waiting for me to say something, even though he won’t say anything first.
“What?” I ask, chewing a piece of avocado.
“That journalist,” he says suddenly. “The one who offered information in exchange for an interview. I want to talk to her.”
“You what now?” I blink. “You want to talk to Selena Hast?”
He nods. I narrow my eyes.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I want to know who started this campaign against us.”
I frown. “Xavier, you do realize she’s going to want something in return, right? She’s probably been fantasizing about landing an exclusive with Mr. X.”
He just looks at me—blank, unreadable—but I can see the wheels turning. It takes him a full thirty seconds to respond.
“Something about the Bridge case doesn’t add up.”
I blink, trying to catch up with the pivot.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away—just stares past me, deep in thought. I watch him, seeing that sharpness creep back into his eyes after days of haze.
Finally, he says, “The street cameras didn’t catch the killer.”
“Right,” I nod, setting my fork down. “Just that old couple walking by.”
“And Bridge himself,” Xavier adds. “But not the killer. So where the hell was he?”
The room goes quiet. Xavier keeps watching me—and then his eyes narrow, like he’s really seeing me again.
“I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip. “You don’t think it was the old couple, do you?”
His gaze flicks to my mouth for a second, then back to my eyes—fast, like he knows I noticed.
“No,” he says, flat.
“Maybe the killer got there early? Waited in the alley all day?” I offer, even though it sounds dumb the second I say it.
“Unlikely,” Xavier says, shaking his head. “They kept tabs on everyone passing through. Someone would’ve flagged it.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I sigh.
We sit with that. I pick up my fork and start eating again—my brain doesn’t work right when I’m hungry.
Xavier keeps watching me. And maybe I’m imagining it—but I swear there’s the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes.
“Why do you even want to talk to Selena Hast?” I ask, circling back. “She could be bluffing about having anything useful. You can’t trust her. She probably just wants to twist your words and write some trashy piece about us for clicks.”
Xavier’s gaze darkens a little, like the thought alone is offensive.
“Don’t worry,” he says after a beat. “I’m not going to say anything that might embarrass you.”
I blink—thrown for a second by the trace of hurt in his voice. “I’m not worried,” I say, more firmly this time. “I just don’t want her messing with you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Xavier says, his gaze still resting on me. “Do you have her number?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I’ll call her.”
We finish breakfast in silence. Xavier scrolls through his phone, which buzzes now and then—each time earning a small frown. Once I’ve eaten and taken my pills, I get up, find my phone, and dig out Selena Hast’s business card.
Back in the kitchen, I dial her number.
As expected, she picks up on the first ring. When I mention meeting, she sounds genuinely pleased and says she’s free in two hours. Then she gives me the address of a pub on Jermyn Street—Abracadabra—where, according to her, we’ll be able to “talk freely.”
“I feel like I just shook hands with the devil,” I tell Xavier, smirking as I set my phone down.
He looks over, expression unreadable. “You don’t have to come.”
“She asked for both of us,” I say. “So yeah, I kind of do.”
His eyes drop to my leg. “You should be resting.”
“You too,” I say with a short laugh. “We’re both kind of wrecked. But if you think talking to her might help, we’ll go together.”
He nods slowly, like he’s still thinking it through, but doesn’t say anything. His phone buzzes again. Xavier glances at the screen, jaw tightening.
“Who is it?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. I’m not trying to sound jealous—I just want to know.
“Ernest,” he says flatly. “Guess barging in wasn’t enough.”
“Yeah,” I say, my face warming at the thought. “That was…rough. I almost feel bad for him. We might’ve cracked something in his psyche.”
Xavier rolls his eyes. “That’s on him. He didn’t knock.”
I snort—and he does too, just barely. It eases something between us. He keeps watching me, too long, and I don’t look away.
My pulse kicks when his hand drifts to my thigh, fingers brushing the side of my knee.
Flashes from this morning hit me hard—the feel of his mouth, the grip of his hands, the way he came undone in mine. I swear I can still taste him. Heat curls in my stomach, and when I meet his eyes again, I know he’s thinking the same thing.
His phone buzzes again, cutting through the moment and snapping us back to reality.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Xavier says quickly, pulling his hand away without looking at me.
Before I can say anything, he’s already up, dropping the apron onto the chair and heading for the bathroom, tugging his T-shirt over his head as he goes. I watch him, eyes tracing the shape of his back, my heart thudding.
Even after last night, there’s still tension between us—not distance, exactly, but that quiet awkwardness of figuring out how to exist around each other now. His confession still doesn’t feel real, and I can sense how cautious he is.
I know I should give him space. But I also want him to know I meant it—that I’m truly in love with him and didn’t just say it out of guilt or obligation. Because what’s becoming clearer by the minute is this: Xavier overthinks all of it just as much as I do.
When I hear the bathroom door lock behind him, I stay in the kitchen, tidy up a bit, then head to my room to get dressed. When I come back downstairs, I realize the living room’s still a mess from last night. I start sweeping up shards of glass and porcelain when there’s a knock—then the door opens, and Mr. and Mrs. Waverly peek in.
“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Waverly says as she steps inside, her face a mix of concern and warmth. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, setting the broom aside. “Did you hear what happened?”
“Yes, we came by earlier,” Mr. Waverly says, following his wife inside. “Xavier told us you were in the hospital. Said the burglar stabbed you.”
“Yeah,” I say with a short laugh. “But the doctors patched me up.”
“You shouldn’t be cleaning,” Mrs. Waverly says, frowning. “Leave it—Mr. Waverly and I will take care of it before lunch.”
“I appreciate it, really, but I’ve got it,” I say. She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me for a second.
“Is Xavier home?” she asks, glancing toward the kitchen.
“Yes, he’s in the shower,” I say—then immediately wince at how that sounds. Way too intimate. Like I just broadcasted we had sex. Which, okay, we did, but it was hours ago and has nothing to do with the shower. Still. My ears go hot.
Mrs. Waverly doesn’t seem to notice how flustered I am.
“How is he?” she asks gently. “This morning—he looked so worried. Pale as a sheet, shaking. Poor thing.”
“He’s better now,” I say, though my chest tightens at the thought. “How are you both holding up after everything?”
Mr. Waverly lets out a deep sigh. “Didn’t sleep much, Newton. I called Garrett this morning—he’ll be here in about an hour to change the locks.”
“Thanks,” I say. “We’re heading out soon, so just let yourself in.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Waverly nods. We stand in a moment of awkward silence before he adds, “Well, go on then. Glad to see you’re feeling better, Newton.”
“Thanks, Mr. Waverly,” I say with a smile.
“Call us if you need anything,” Mrs. Waverly adds, and then they’re gone.
I finish cleaning, even as my leg starts to protest. Once I’m done, I sink onto the couch and pull out my phone to check the news. One of the articles has a photo of me from yesterday—standing outside the house—under the headline: Doherty Makes a Statement.
I don’t bother reading it. I already know what it says.
I scroll through the news and spot a few more articles with pictures of me and Xavier, but I don’t bother clicking. After everything that’s happened, I’m not about to ruin the morning with gossip.
