Page 13 of Detectives in Love

Fred bursts out laughing. “Ah, Mr. Ormond! So you’ve seenThe ChronicleBabes?”

“The what?” I frown, looking between them.

Fred grins at me, unfazed. “Just a little feature we do—‘babe of the day,’ ‘babe of the month’—keeps the readers happy.”

“You really don’t see the misogyny, do you,” Xavier says. “And you still think this isn’t a tabloid. That’s rich.”

“Xavier,” I say, throwing him a warning look. I do agree with him, but I really don’t want to make a scene in the lobby.

“It’s fine,” Fred says, his smile easy. “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, and I respect yours, Mr. Ormond. I’ll admit, the Babes section gives us a bit of a tabloid vibe—but hey, people love it. Anyway, why don’t we head upstairs? You can catch your breath for a minute.”

He starts up the stairs, and I follow, then glance back to check if Xavier’s coming. For a moment, I think he might turn around and leave, but he doesn’t—just trails after me in silence, looking pretty miserable.

The second floor is quiet—the low hum of fluorescent lights filling the hallway. Fred pushes open a door, leading us into a break room. Tables are scattered around, a few couches line the far wall, and a TV murmurs in the corner, tuned to some daytime talk show. The air smells faintly of coffee and something sweet.

Fred motions to a table, and I slide into a chair, but Xavier hesitates, standing there like he’s deciding whether to walk out. After a beat, he exhales and sits beside me, pulling out the folder Willand gave us.

He flips it open, staring at the pages like he’s reading, but I know he’s not. While Fred and I talk, Xavier’s eyes stay fixed on the same spot too long, and every time Fred cracks a joke, his gaze flicks up for a second before dropping back down. Classic Xavier—acting detached but tracking everything.

About half an hour later, the cafeteria door opens. A dark-haired man in a black suit steps inside. His eyes land on Fred first, then shift to Xavier and me, surprised. A moment later, he heads our way.

“What brings you in on a Sunday, Freddie?” the man asks.

“Work, as always,” Fred says, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Plus giving some friends a tour of the office.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” the man says, throwing Xavier and me a quick glance as he shakes Fred’s hand. “Freddie shows up once a week around lunchtime, grabs a bite, and then takesoff again. Honestly, sometimes I’m not even sure if he still works here.”

Fred chuckles, rolling his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh along. Then the dark-haired man extends a hand toward me.

“Bernard Nimoy,” he says.

“Newt Doherty,” I reply, shaking it.

Bernard turns to Xavier next, waiting for some acknowledgment—but Xavier doesn’t look up, his eyes locked on the page like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.

The silence stretches, awkward enough that I clear my throat. “This is Xavier.”

Bernard offers a faint smile. “I know Mr. Ormond.”

That finally gets Xavier to glance up, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Chief Willand,” Bernard says. He looks closer to Xavier’s age than mine—tall, dark-eyed, clean-shaven, with a mess of curls that gives him more of a ‘90s detective vibe than a journalist’s. “He mentioned you’ve been a big help to them lately.”

“You work with Willand?” I ask, caught off guard.

Bernard nods. “That’s right. I mostly cover politics and crime, so we talk pretty often. We go way back.”

“Interesting,” Xavier says, his tone flat. Then, without missing a beat, he turns to me. “Newt. A word. In private.”

Before I know it, we’re both on our feet. The journalists watch us with barely concealed curiosity as Xavier strides toward the far end of the room, leaving me no choice but to follow.

When we reach the corner, he stops at an unmarked door and swings it open. I barely have time to react before he shoves me inside without warning. Typical Xavier—bigger than me, all broad shoulders and quiet force, with this maddening habit of moving me around like I belong to him.

And the worst part—I don’t exactly hate it.

Not that I’d ever admit it. Instead, I scowl, ignoring the way my pulse spikes. I’m supposed to be annoyed right now.

We’re crammed into a tiny closet that smells faintly of damp and laundry soap. He flips a switch, and a harsh light flickers on, throwing jagged shadows over shelves of cleaning supplies and a sad-looking mop slumped in the corner.