Page 163 of Detectives in Love

A narrow corridor branches off to the side, almost claustrophobic in the dim light. Closed booths line both walls like compartments on a train. Near one of them, I spot a waitress with a thin blonde ponytail, struggling to balance a tray of dirty plates in one hand and a half-empty jug of juice in the other.

I watch her fumble with it, half-absently, wondering if I should offer to help.

Then I notice Xavier watching me, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What?” I say, glancing at him.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, a little too fast.

I narrow my eyes, but before I can say anything, the waitress notices us.

“Hello there,” she says. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I say. “Can you show us to a table?”

“Sure,” she nods toward the booth she just left. “You can sit in here—I just cleaned it. I’ll be right back with you.”

“Thanks,” I say, and Xavier and I step inside.

The room’s quieter than expected, the music just a faint hum in the background. Two small couches face each other with a narrow table wedged between them. Xavier slides into the booth first, and I settle beside him.

I pick up the menu. “You want anything?” I ask, glancing at him.

He just shakes his head, clearly lost in thought. I can’t tell if it’s about the case or something else.

We’re twenty minutes early, so I flip through the menu, thinking about getting a coffee. Maybe something sweet. The cherry pie doesn’t look bad, but my appetite’s off. The meeting’s already sitting heavy in my stomach. Nothing good’s going to come of it—that much I can feel. I close the menu and set it back on the table.

The waitress comes back, a little out of breath, and offers us a wide smile. “What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll have a coffee,” I say, giving Xavier a quick glance.

“Two coffees,” he says. “One with a slice of lemon on the side.”

“Alright,” she nods. “Anything to eat?”

“No thanks,” I say.

She winks at me before stepping out and pulling the door shut behind her.

Xavier gives me one of those long, unreadable looks.

“Since when do you drink your coffee with lemon?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t,” he says. “It’s for you.”

I blink. “For me?”

“Yes. You always drink coffee with lemon.”

“Not always,” I say, though my heart’s picking up again.

“Always—when we have lemons,” Xavier corrects.

We go quiet, just looking at each other. My skin’s buzzing from the sudden warmth.

“I can’t believe you noticed that,” I say finally, my voice low.

Xavier shrugs, like it’s nothing—like it didn’t mean anything. But it does. I’ve known him for over a year, and only now am I starting to really see him.