CHAPTER 3. OUT #2
Xavier narrows his eyes and lets out a sharp snort. “Is that why you run a spread of half-naked women in every issue?”
I glance at him, thrown. What the hell is he talking about?
Fred bursts out laughing. “Ah, Mr. Ormond! So you’ve seen The Chronicle Babes?”
“The what?” I frown, looking between them.
Fred grins at me, unfazed. “Just a little feature we do—‘babe of the day,’ ‘babe of the month’—keeps the readers happy.”
“You really don’t see the misogyny, do you,” Xavier says. “And you still think this isn’t a tabloid. That’s rich.”
“Xavier,” I say, throwing him a warning look. I do agree with him, but I really don’t want to make a scene in the lobby.
“It’s fine,” Fred says, his smile easy. “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, and I respect yours, Mr. Ormond. I’ll admit, the Babes section gives us a bit of a tabloid vibe—but hey, people love it. Anyway, why don’t we head upstairs? You can catch your breath for a minute.”
He starts up the stairs, and I follow, then glance back to check if Xavier’s coming. For a moment, I think he might turn around and leave, but he doesn’t—just trails after me in silence, looking pretty miserable.
The second floor is quiet—the low hum of fluorescent lights filling the hallway.
Fred pushes open a door, leading us into a break room.
Tables are scattered around, a few couches line the far wall, and a TV murmurs in the corner, tuned to some daytime talk show.
The air smells faintly of coffee and something sweet.
Fred motions to a table, and I slide into a chair, but Xavier hesitates, standing there like he’s deciding whether to walk out. After a beat, he exhales and sits beside me, pulling out the folder Willand gave us.
He flips it open, staring at the pages like he’s reading, but I know he’s not.
While Fred and I talk, Xavier’s eyes stay fixed on the same spot too long, and every time Fred cracks a joke, his gaze flicks up for a second before dropping back down.
Classic Xavier—acting detached but tracking everything.
About half an hour later, the cafeteria door opens. A dark-haired man in a black suit steps inside. His eyes land on Fred first, then shift to Xavier and me, surprised. A moment later, he heads our way.
“What brings you in on a Sunday, Freddie?” the man asks.
“Work, as always,” Fred says, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Plus giving some friends a tour of the office.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” the man says, throwing Xavier and me a quick glance as he shakes Fred’s hand. “Freddie shows up once a week around lunchtime, grabs a bite, and then takes off again. Honestly, sometimes I’m not even sure if he still works here.”
Fred chuckles, rolling his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh along. Then the dark-haired man extends a hand toward me.
“Bernard Nimoy,” he says.
“Newt Doherty,” I reply, shaking it.
Bernard turns to Xavier next, waiting for some acknowledgment—but Xavier doesn’t look up, his eyes locked on the page like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.
The silence stretches, awkward enough that I clear my throat. “This is Xavier.”
Bernard offers a faint smile. “I know Mr. Ormond.”
That finally gets Xavier to glance up, his expression unreadable.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from Chief Willand,” Bernard says. He looks closer to Xavier’s age than mine—tall, dark-eyed, clean-shaven, with a mess of curls that gives him more of a ‘90s detective vibe than a journalist’s. “He mentioned you’ve been a big help to them lately.”
“You work with Willand?” I ask, caught off guard.
Bernard nods. “That’s right. I mostly cover politics and crime, so we talk pretty often. We go way back.”
“Interesting,” Xavier says, his tone flat. Then, without missing a beat, he turns to me. “Newt. A word. In private.”
Before I know it, we’re both on our feet. The journalists watch us with barely concealed curiosity as Xavier strides toward the far end of the room, leaving me no choice but to follow.
When we reach the corner, he stops at an unmarked door and swings it open. I barely have time to react before he shoves me inside without warning. Typical Xavier—bigger than me, all broad shoulders and quiet force, with this maddening habit of moving me around like I belong to him.
And the worst part—I don’t exactly hate it.
Not that I’d ever admit it. Instead, I scowl, ignoring the way my pulse spikes. I’m supposed to be annoyed right now.
We’re crammed into a tiny closet that smells faintly of damp and laundry soap. He flips a switch, and a harsh light flickers on, throwing jagged shadows over shelves of cleaning supplies and a sad-looking mop slumped in the corner.
Then he looks at me.
Dark eyes lock onto mine, so focused it makes my skin prickle under his gaze.
A sharp jolt of something unwanted—something dangerously close to arousal—twists in my gut.
Heat climbs up my neck, and the only way to keep from giving myself away is to go on the defensive.
Because I can feel I’m blushing, and he cannot know what he’s doing to me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap, forcing as much irritation into my voice as I can.
Xavier’s too close, his hand locked around my elbow, his chest brushing mine. I try to step back, but my shoulder hits a shelf, rattling bottles of disinfectant.
God. When he’s this close, it’s impossible to ignore the tight, maddening pressure in my chest—no matter how hard I try.
“I’m not one for niceties,” Xavier says, his voice edged with frustration. “So can you please come up with a decent excuse for us to leave. Now.”
I drag in a breath, trying to shove down the mess of emotions threatening to spiral out of control.
“Xavier, Fred’s doing us a favor,” I manage, keeping my voice level. “Did you not see that mob outside the police department? And our place? He got us out of that—”
“Your Fred is no different from the rest of them,” Xavier cuts in with a frustrated sigh. “Just another vulture looking to sink his teeth into a juicy story. And speaking of that…” His eyes narrow. “Care to tell me what this is really about?”
Heat rushes to my face again. I try to look away, forcing my gaze off his, but it slips—landing on his lips for a fraction of a second before I catch myself. Great. Now I’m definitely crimson. I shift my focus somewhere over his shoulder, desperate to cover the moment.
“The Weekend Herald ran a huge story about us,” I mumble, pinching the bridge of my nose like it might somehow erase this entire disaster.
Xavier doesn’t react right away. His face stays neutral—but something dark flickers in his eyes.
“A story,” he repeats, his voice flat.
I nod, swallowing past the dryness in my throat. “Yeah. Front page. Huge headline. With some random pictures.”
Xavier frowns. “Random pictures of what?”
I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck. “Us.”
“I don’t understand,” he says, watching my face so closely it’s like he thinks it might hold the answer to all his questions.
I take a slow breath, bracing myself. “Different photos of us. Like at Little Italy, when we were—uh—having dinner—” I cut myself off, realizing there’s no good way to explain this.
“So?” Xavier frowns deeper, clearly not following. His patience is thinning fast. “Just say it, Newt.”
I exhale, my gaze fixed anywhere but on him. “They think we’re sleeping together.”
A slow, stretching silence settles between us, making my skin prickle. Xavier stares at me for several long seconds, the weight of my words pressing down on the space between us. I shift uncomfortably, finally daring to glance at him—but his face gives nothing away.
Then he speaks, his voice calm—too calm. “That explains Crowley and Gordon’s nonsense today.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, a flicker of relief washing over me. At least that’s where his mind goes first.
Xavier pauses, then says, “So you hid the paper from me this morning?” He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to scan my brain for answers.
I hesitate. “Yeah…” And just like that, I feel ten years old again, about to be told off by my dad for buying cigarettes with lunch money.
“Why?”
I swallow hard, but when I answer, there’s a faint edge of defiance in my voice. “I didn’t want you to see all that garbage. How they twisted everything.”
A crooked, humorless smirk tugs at his lips, but there’s a bitterness in it that makes my chest clench. “Newt, I’ve been called plenty of things in my lifetime. Being called Newt Doherty’s lover—” His smirk deepens, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, as he finishes, “Well, I think I’ll survive.”
Maybe I’m imagining it, but for a moment, I think I hear something almost like hurt in Xavier’s voice. Before I can process it—or say anything—the door behind him swings open.
“You guys do realize this is a broom closet, right?” Fred’s teasing voice cuts through the tension. “Oh. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, we’re leaving,” Xavier says flatly, already striding back into the break room.
I follow, though my legs suddenly feel unsteady—like the floor beneath me has turned to jelly.
“So soon?” Fred asks, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
Xavier doesn’t answer. He grabs the folder he left on the table, then glances at me. “Are you coming?”
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak.