Page 113 of Detectives in Love

After a moment, Xavier shifts, resting his cheek against my stomach like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My breath catches. The way he leans into me, completely unguarded, sends a flutter through my chest.

I rest my hand on his back, rubbing slowly over the fabric of his T-shirt before moving on. His hair is soft under my fingers, and when I thread my hands through it, he shivers and lets out a quiet breath.

I comb through his curls gently, taking my time, making sure they’re dry before I let go. Once I’m done, I switch off the dryer and set it on the bedside table.

But before I can step away, Xavier catches my wrist and pulls me back toward him. He looks up at me, his eyes so tired and heavy it makes my chest ache. Then he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in, holding me close.

I settle against him, brushing my fingers along his cheek. His eyes find mine—they’re dark, lingering like he’s tryingto memorize my face—and his grip tightens just a little, enough to make my pulse jump.

“You okay?” I ask, smiling as my thumb skims his cheekbone. My heart’s pounding in my throat, the whole thing suddenly unbearably intimate.

“Yeah,” Xavier says. He closes his eyes and rests his cheek against my stomach.

I stay like that longer than I should, caught in it—but the heat in my gut won’t let up. The smell of him, the closeness—it messes with my head, and I know if I don’t move now, my body’s going to catch up.

“I should shower,” I murmur, easing out of his arms.

Xavier doesn’t move at first. Then, after a beat, he lets go.

“I’ll get dressed,” he says.

I nod and walk out of the room.

***

Around twenty minutes later, we finally step outside.

The second the door opens, we’re hit with a wall of blinding flashes and a burst of noise. Hickory Road is packed—dozens of journalists crammed onto the sidewalk, blocking the path to the street, with a few fans lingering behind them, phones raised. Microphones and cameras shove toward us from every angle, shutters clicking nonstop.

I flinch against the glare and instinctively step in front of Xavier as we try to push through, but the reporters close in fast, boxing us in.

“Mr. Doherty, can we get a quick comment?”

“Xavier, how are you feeling today?”

“Is it true you’re staying friends?”

“Are you still living here?”

I grit my teeth and raise a hand to block the light. There’s no way around them—we’ll have to go straight through.

“Is it over between you two?”

“Do you regret what happened?”

“Newt, just one question!”

I move quickly down the porch steps, keeping my gaze fixed ahead, making it clear we’re not answering anything.

“Mr. Doherty, please!”

“Anything you want to say to the fans?”

“No, thank you,” I mutter, turning away just as a guy with a ponytail and a massive camera tries to cut me off from the left.

“What’s going on with Miss Fairfax?”