Page 160 of Detectives in Love

“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?”