Page 68 of Detectives in Love

“Yeah? What’ve you got?” I lean in, curious.

“You hear about Minister Craig’s latest mess?”

“I’ve caught bits and pieces,” I say. “It’s buzzing online…”

Bernard’s smile turns sly. “Yep. Married fifteen years, and now he’s fooling around with some boy toy. Pretty messy stuff.”

“Thought your paper was above that kind of gossip,” Xavier cuts in, voice sharp with contempt.

Bernard raises an eyebrow.

“When’s the last time you actually read our paper, Mr. Ormond? Don’t get me wrong—I loveThe Chronicle. But we’re not exactly The Times. We’re all just trying to keep our heads above water. Sometimes that means getting our hands a little dirty.”

“So you make a living dragging people through the mud,” Xavier says, his voice flat. He’s trying to stay calm, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.

Bernard shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of the accusation. “Mr. Ormond…look, I really am sorry about everything with you and Mr. Doherty, but it’s not my faultThe Weekend Heraldran that piece.”

I take a long sip of coffee, my face heating up. Xavier doesn’t even blink.

“Is there anyone in this city who hasn’t seen that article?” he says, lips curled in distaste.

Bernard glances between us, managing a sheepish smile. “I didn’t, actually. Fred Collins filled me in.”

Xavier shoots me an accusatory look. I pretend not to notice.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, turning back to Bernard. “You’re doing the same thing to other people.”

Bernard sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it’s not like this is what I set out to do. It’s not even my usual beat—I cover crime, politics, real news. But this?” He shrugs, helpless. “My editor wanted the story. He made the call. I didn’t really have a choice.”

Before Xavier can respond, the waitress arrives with Bernard’s breakfast, and the table goes quiet.

While the waitress clears space on the table with one hand, balancing a tray with the other, I reach over to help.

“Let me,” I say, and she blushes, not quite meeting my eyes.

That’s when I feel Xavier’s gaze flick between us. I look up at him, confused—but before I can say anything, he snaps, “Come on, give it to me,” reaching for the tray, the edge in his voice unmistakable.

The waitress looks up, startled.

“It’s fine,” she says, and the tray wobbles as she instinctively tightens her grip—but it’s too late. I can see it unfolding in slow motion: the coffee pot slipping off the edge, tumbling toward the table. Xavier lifts his hands to catch it, but it’s hot, and it slips through his fingers, splashing coffee across his coat, his pants, his black shirt, and finally lands on the seat, unbroken.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” the waitress gasps, eyes wide, already reaching for napkins. But Xavier doesn’t even look at her. He swears loudly, shoots up from the booth, and stalks off toward the bathroom, dripping coffee all the way.

“I’m so sorry,” the waitress mumbles, eyes starting to tear up.

“It’s fine,” I say quietly, trying to reassure her as Bernard and I slide out of the booth. He grabs a handful of napkins from the holder and crouches to help her clean up.

“I’ll go check on him,” I murmur, and when he nods, I head toward the bathroom.

I push the door open and peek inside. “Xavier? You okay?”

The bathroom’s small—three stalls, five sinks, multicolored tiles on the floor. A single flickering light buzzes overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.

From one of the stalls, Xavier mutters, “Yeah.”

I hover in the doorway, not sure if I should go in or wait.

“Do you…uh, need help?”