Page 4 of Detectives in Love

“Shorewitch is buzzing with a scandal: a TWH insider claims that world-famous private detective Xavier Ormond is in love with his roommate, Newt Doherty—an independent investigator and true crime writer who co-founded the Partners-in-Crime detective agency with Ormond.

The two have been practically inseparable for over a year now, but Ormond—famous for his bachelor lifestyle and legions of admirers—has always denied any romantic or sexual involvement with Doherty. Now, an anonymous source alleges the opposite, claiming Ormond is gay and has confessed his love to Doherty, with whom he’s reportedly begun a sexual relationship.

Adding fuel to the fire, the pair were recently spotted sharing a candlelit dinner at Little Italy and flirting outside their city-center apartment (see photos)…”

My stomach twists as I read the words, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Who the hell wrote this? And what “anonymous source” decided it was their life’s mission to turn my existence into Shorewitch’s latest gossip fodder?

“…Readers may recall Xavier Ormond’s repeated claims of ‘not looking for a relationship,’ much to his fans’ dismay. But it seems Mr. Ormond may have finally had a change of heart—or perhaps his connection with Mr. Doherty is purely physical.

Insiders whisper about Ormond’s legendary libido, and speculation is running wild: is this romance the real deal, or just a no-strings fling? Either way, Shorewitch can’t stop talking—maybe the world-famous Mr. X should now be dubbed Mr. Sex…”

I slam the newspaper shut, the words rattling in my brain like loose screws. How the hell did this garbage make it to print? I’d warned Xavier that with our growing popularity, the press would eventually stop throwing us flowers and start digging for dirt, but this? Speculations about his sexuality? Insinuations—no, scratch that—blatant lies that we’re sleeping together? It’s invasive and wrong, and seeing it printed in the papers feels like a horrible violation of privacy. And yet, what stings the most is how it feels like my own secret has been dragged into the open, exposed for everyone to laugh at.

I swallow hard and glance at Xavier’s closed bedroom door.

It took me a while to admit I was in love with Xavier Ormond. My so-called bi-awakening hit me at thirty-four like a freight train, right after my first sex dream about him—which, let’s be honest, was mortifying. Especially considering how hard I’d convinced myself I was straight. I’m not even going to unpack that right now—you can probably imagine.

For a while, I managed to convince myself that it was just the living arrangement—that sharing the same space was messing with my head. But eventually, I had to face the truth:it’s not the situation. It’s him. I’m justreally, reallyattracted to him.

Xavier makes me feel like my insides are on fire every single time he looks at me. It’s almost humiliating how much his touch makes my skin buzz, especially since we live together like some twisted version of a married couple.

And then there’s the way we bicker, like we’re an actual couple. The tension between us sometimes gets so tight it feels like a damn string about to snap. And, god, if we were together, we’d probably fuck like rabbits just to burn off all that tension. But that’s impossible, so instead, here we are—fighting, over and over again.

I grip the newspaper tighter, my knuckles turning white, then flip it back open, scanning the words that feel like a personal attack. Some journalists are just vultures, plain and simple. They’re waiting for the first chance to drag someone through the mud, tearing them apart without a second thought. It pisses me off how they’re making everything sound dirty—how my feelings for Xavier, my desire for him, feel reduced to nothing more than juicy gossip for everyone to gloat over.

And by the way, I have no idea what Xavier’s sexual orientation is. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about. I always just assumed he was straight—mostly because women seem to fall at his feet wherever we go. It never even occurred to me to think otherwise.

But now that I’m thinking about it, in all the time we’ve lived together, Xavier hasn’t brought anyone home—not once. No late-night visitors, no awkward mornings with someone sipping coffee in last night’s clothes. Then again, neither have I, so maybe that doesn’t mean anything. Still, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I was wrong to assume.

He’s the kind of guy who exudes effortless sexuality, yet he doesn’t seem interested in anyone—not in an obvious way, at least. I won’t lie—I’m curious. Not for my sake, of course, but because I want to understand that part of him.

A tiny, intrusive voice in the back of my mind suggests checking his laptop—just to see if he watches porn and, if so, what kind—but I shove the thought aside immediately. That would be a complete invasion of privacy.

Still, I can’t help but wonder.

The final line of the article keeps echoing in my head, louder with every passing second:

“…But while Xavier Ormond’s heart may have softened, Shorewitch is buzzing with one question: what does Newt Doherty really want—and is he looking for something deeper with Ormond…or is it all just physical?”

This isn’t just bad—it’s a nightmare. Our reputation is in shreds. What are people going to think of our agency now?

My head pounds, the hangover making the panic even worse. I drag a hand down my face, trying to steady my breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—but it doesn’t help.

Because, if I’m honest, it’s not the agency’s reputation I’m most worried about.

It’s Xavier’s reaction.

He’s always brushed off the rumors about us (and there’ve been plenty, especially when we first started the agency). But this? This is different. This is a full-blown scandal splashed acrossThe Weekend Herald—the same paper he reads religiously every Sunday morning, without fail.

And today is Sunday.

So, I decide to hide the newspaper and pretend nothing happened. Real mature, I know.

But the thought of Xavier seeing that article—and maybe being horrified by it—makes me want to disappear. Because deep down, I know what I’m really afraid of: seeing disgust on his face. And god, that terrifies me, because I’m so hopelessly, irreversibly in love with him.

Fooling Xavier is almost always a lost cause, but distracting him? That’s doable. The real question is: how? Maybe I should commit a murder—something dramatic enough to keep him busy.