CHAPTER 1. PRESSED #3
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 across The 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.
Good thing I already caused plenty of chaos last night when I came home drunk and blacked out.
Most likely, Xavier will bring that up—probably to remind me how I ended up sprawled on the floor, babbling nonsense.
That is, if he even decides to talk to me.
We haven’t exactly patched things up since our last fight.
Right then, Xavier’s door at the end of the corridor creaks open, and my stomach drops. I shoot up from my chair, grab the newspaper off the table, and make a beeline for the living room.
“Newt.”
His voice stops me in my tracks—sharp, like a tomahawk aimed squarely at my back.
My heart skips a beat as I force a neutral expression and turn around. “Yes?”
Xavier stands in the doorway, wrapped in a comforter. His chest is bare, and his long, muscular legs peek out from beneath the fabric. Wait—is he naked under there? Oh god. My face heats up instantly, and I look away, focusing on a random spot on the floor.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his tone softer than I expected.
I blink, completely thrown. No teasing about me stumbling home drunk? No smug comments? This has to be a dream…
“All good,” I say quickly, avoiding his gaze.
“That’s good.”
Xavier’s eyes stay on me, and I can feel him watching, like he’s waiting for something. Before he can say anything else, I turn and step into the living room.
“Are you angry with me?” His voice cuts through the air, and my heart does the Macarena in my chest.
I freeze and turn back to him. It’s not the question that catches me off guard—it’s his tone. It’s so tender, as though he actually cares about the answer.
“What?” I ask, my voice flat.
“You’re angry with me because of what happened.” He says it like a statement, not a question.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not angry. I’m just going to my room.”
Xavier frowns, his brows drawing together, but he doesn’t say anything else. I leave him standing there, the comforter barely clinging to his shoulders, and make my way through the living room and up the stairs.
Once inside my room, I shut the door and lean against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. Then I walk over to the bed, lift the mattress, and shove the newspaper underneath. Out of sight, out of mind—at least for now.
Later, when Xavier isn’t around, I’ll tear it into tiny pieces and toss it away. Yes, that’s the plan. Maybe the mailman forgot to deliver it—again. That’s happened before, so it wouldn’t seem suspicious.
As I step away from the bed, something on the floor catches my eye. I bend down and pick it up—a long, black satin belt. I stare at it for a second before realizing it’s from Xavier’s robe.
I frown. Was Xavier rummaging through my room again, searching for my hidden stash of sweets?
He’s always swearing off sugar, purging the cupboards and declaring himself sugar-free for a month—until the inevitable crash.
When the cravings hit, he starts hunting for the chocolate I sometimes keep in my bedside table.
I toss the robe belt onto the bed and move to the wardrobe. As I unbutton my shirt and shrug it off, a line from the article worms its way back into my head: “…world-famous private detective Xavier Ormond is in a relationship with his roommate, Newt Doherty…”
No, I think, shaking my head as I stare blankly at my wardrobe. The writer of that article couldn’t possibly know Xavier. Anyone who even remotely knows him would find the idea ridiculous.
Would they?
I think back to the first time we had dinner together, not long after the Carver case—a year and a half ago, just after I’d been released from the hospital. I’d sent Xavier a massive fruit basket to thank him for saving me, and somehow, he’d gotten my number and messaged me, inviting me to dinner.
At the time, I remember thinking it was a little odd for one guy to invite another to a restaurant instead of a bar, but I convinced myself that Xavier was just…
unconventional. The dinner had felt vaguely like a date: the restaurant was fancy and expensive, and Xavier had shown up in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, looking effortlessly polished.
He’d been charming, joking, and laughing as he poured me wine.
In the moment, it hadn’t seemed that strange.
But looking back, I realize now—Xavier had been trying. Really trying.
When the bill came, he paid without hesitation and refused to let me contribute. Unusual for men who aren’t dating. Then again, considering how expensive the restaurant was, I figured that was why he insisted—it didn’t feel like the kind of place where you split the check.
But the strangest part of the night came when he dropped me off at my apartment. As we sat in his car, saying our goodbyes, there was this awkward moment—Xavier leaned toward me, and for a second, I thought he was going to…kiss me.
I panicked and jerked back, only to realize he was just reaching over to open the door for me.
The moment turned painfully awkward after that, and I mumbled a quick thank-you before practically bolting out of the car.
“Newt.”
Xavier’s voice jolts me back to the present, and I spin around to find him standing just a few feet away. How the hell does he always move so silently?
I exhale sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Xavier, don’t sneak up on me like that!” At least he’s wearing a robe now, draped over his bare chest, with black pants peeking out underneath.
“Sorry. I knocked. You didn’t answer.”
“What do you want?” I ask, trying to steady my breathing and realizing I might’ve overreacted.
It’s only when his gaze drops to my chest that I notice—he’s staring at my scars.
Xavier’s only seen them once before, back at the Carver’s den—when the cuts were fresh. Now they’re pale—long streaks of scar tissue cutting across my torso. Trauma carved into my skin.
I clear my throat, trying to draw his attention away. “You wanted something?”
He looks up, his face as unreadable as ever. “Willand called. He wants to meet in half an hour.”
And just like that, he turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.