Page 87 of Detectives in Love

When I get back, I step inside and pause, listening for any sign of Xavier—but the apartment is quiet. I shake it off and head to the kitchen to start cooking.

Outside, snow starts falling again, spreading a pale haze over the city. I glance out the window at the snow-covered street, and for some reason, I feel even worse.

The whole party suddenly seems like a monumentally stupid idea. Why did I invite Monica? And then Katie, Fred,Bernard—people I barely know—when the only person I actually want to see isn’t even here?

At this point, I might as well invite Willand, the Waverlys, and Ernest too—go full sitcom with it.

Except Xavier won’t be here.

The thought sinks in hard, leaving behind a bitter mix of anger and disappointment.

After I finish cooking—baked chicken with mashed potatoes and salad—I spend the next hour scrubbing the kitchen spotless, then move on to the living room: vacuuming, dusting, rearranging books that didn’t need rearranging. Every half hour, I drift back into the kitchen for more coffee. I’ve lost count, but I’m definitely on cup five.

What is wrong with me? I’ve never spiraled like this over anyone. But now I can’t sit still, can’t think straight. I need to stop thinking about him.

I switch on the TV and start setting the table, letting the mindless chatter of some random cooking show fill the silence. That’s how the rest of the day slips by.

At quarter to six, the doorbell rings.

I won’t lie—my heart skips a beat. It’s too early for the guests, and maybe, just maybe, I hope it’s Xavier, who forgot his keys.

But it’s not. I glance at the downstairs monitor and see Monica.

A minute later, she steps through the door in a snow-covered coat, holding a large box in her arms.

“Hey,” I say with a small smile, letting her in.

“Hi,” she replies, handing me the box and giving me a quick one-armed hug. “Am I too early?”

“No, it’s fine,” I mumble, heading to the kitchen and trying not to show the flash of disappointment I felt. “What’s in the box?” I call over my shoulder.

“A cherry pie,” she says from the living room. “It’s from Bennett’s.”

A bittersweet jolt of memory washes over me. Just over two months ago, Xavier and I sat in this kitchen after cracking the sex cartel case, eating cherry pie from Bennett’s straight out of the box…

“Xavier Ormond actually enjoying dessert—now that’s a sight,” I teased.

He swallowed his second piece and shot me a pointed look.

“My body needs extra calories now and then, Newt. It’s good for metabolism. It’s not about enjoying it.”

“Right,” I smiled, watching his eyes drift toward the third piece. “Should’ve gone with the baked potatoes if you were really in it for the energy.”

Xavier gave me an unimpressed look, then—suddenly—an annoyed little smile.

“Alright, I like it. What now? You gonna laugh at how I’m as mortal as everybody else?”

“When have I ever done that?” I snorted—then, without missing a beat, added, “I just like knowing you’re human.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, be quiet.”

I cracked a grin, heart suddenly racing.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”