Page 33 of Detectives in Love

“Oh, great. And here I was hoping for a peaceful night of not dying.”

“Come on. I thought you liked a little danger.”

I snort. “Sure. Roller coasters, horror movies, spicy food—normal danger. Not ‘breaking into a crematorium guarded by ex-convicts’ danger. I’m still halfway hungover and possibly mildly concussed. Plus, I really want to sleep, Xavier.”

Xavier’s lips twitch into a faint smile as he watches me, eyes almost pleading. “Pretty please? I really can’t do this alone. I need your brain. You’re way better at the nerdy stuff than I am. Sleep for a couple of hours, and I’ll wake you later.”

The way he looks at me—smiling like that—makes my pulse stutter. Shit, I can’t even say no to him anymore.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Wow. Such generosity. You should get a medal.”

“I can get down on my knees and beg, if that sweetens the deal.”

Our eyes meet. My face heats up.

“What’s next, a promise ring?” I mutter, blushing furiously. “Okay, fine.”

“You’re the best,” Xavier says, grinning like he just cracked a case after weeks of dead ends. Then he pauses, like something just occurred to him. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you—your stupid fucking friend called while you were out. Fred Collins.” There’s a definite edge in his voice.

“What did he want?”

“No clue.”

“I’ll call him back tomorrow.”

I push myself up from the bed, and a fresh wave of pain crashes through my skull. Wincing, I make my way to the wardrobe and reach for a clean sweater and some lounging pants.

I pause, back still to Xavier.

“By the way,” I say, keeping it casual, “where are my clothes?”

“Hm?”

“My clothes,” I repeat, glancing over my shoulder. “The ones I was wearing outside. When I woke up, I wasn’t…in them.”

“In the bathroom,” Xavier says.

“Okay.” I nod, shoving the thought aside before my brain can go places it shouldn’t.

“You seriously need to check yourself for a concussion.”

I chuckle, trying to shake off the weird tension curling in my stomach, then pull on the sweater and pants. “I completely forgot about Monica. I should go check on her.”

As I head for the door, I glance back—Xavier’s still sitting on my bed, completely still.

“You’re not coming?”

“No. Let me know when everyone’s gone.”

“It’s just Monica now. Everyone else already left.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Alright.”

I head downstairs, dragging my feet. I don’t want to talk to Monica—what I do want is to shut myself in a dark room, like Xavier, and block everything out: the article, the gossip, the questions. But I don’t get that luxury.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Monica says from her seat at the table, giving me a look. “I’ve got to head out soon.”