CHAPTER 15. STORM #4
“Let’s go,” I say, reaching for him.
Xavier looks down at my hand like I’ve just done something miraculous—then takes it. And my heart stumbles a little—because he’s so touch-starved, even something this small seems to undo him.
In the kitchen, he plates the rest of the food, and we sit down to eat. It feels almost domestic—the quiet, the way he keeps sneaking glances at me like he’s waiting for me to say something, even though he won’t say anything first.
“What?” I ask, chewing a piece of avocado.
“That journalist,” he says suddenly. “The one who offered information in exchange for an interview. I want to talk to her.”
“You what now?” I blink. “You want to talk to Selena Hast?”
He nods. I narrow my eyes.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I want to know who started this campaign against us.”
I frown. “Xavier, you do realize she’s going to want something in return, right? She’s probably been fantasizing about landing an exclusive with Mr. X.”
He just looks at me—blank, unreadable—but I can see the wheels turning. It takes him a full thirty seconds to respond.
“Something about the Bridge case doesn’t add up.”
I blink, trying to catch up with the pivot.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away—just stares past me, deep in thought. I watch him, seeing that sharpness creep back into his eyes after days of haze.
Finally, he says, “The street cameras didn’t catch the killer.”
“Right,” I nod, setting my fork down. “Just that old couple walking by.”
“And Bridge himself,” Xavier adds. “But not the killer. So where the hell was he?”
The room goes quiet. Xavier keeps watching me—and then his eyes narrow, like he’s really seeing me again.
“I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip. “You don’t think it was the old couple, do you?”
His gaze flicks to my mouth for a second, then back to my eyes—fast, like he knows I noticed.
“No,” he says, flat.
“Maybe the killer got there early? Waited in the alley all day?” I offer, even though it sounds dumb the second I say it.
“Unlikely,” Xavier says, shaking his head. “They kept tabs on everyone passing through. Someone would’ve flagged it.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I sigh.
We sit with that. I pick up my fork and start eating again—my brain doesn’t work right when I’m hungry.
Xavier keeps watching me. And maybe I’m imagining it—but I swear there’s the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes.
“Why do you even want to talk to Selena Hast?” I ask, circling back. “She could be bluffing about having anything useful. You can’t trust her. She probably just wants to twist your words and write some trashy piece about us for clicks.”
Xavier’s gaze darkens a little, like the thought alone is offensive.
“Don’t worry,” he says after a beat. “I’m not going to say anything that might embarrass you.”
I blink—thrown for a second by the trace of hurt in his voice. “I’m not worried,” I say, more firmly this time. “I just don’t want her messing with you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Xavier says, his gaze still resting on me. “Do you have her number?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I’ll call her.”
We finish breakfast in silence. Xavier scrolls through his phone, which buzzes now and then—each time earning a small frown. Once I’ve eaten and taken my pills, I get up, find my phone, and dig out Selena Hast’s business card.
Back in the kitchen, I dial her number.
As expected, she picks up on the first ring. When I mention meeting, she sounds genuinely pleased and says she’s free in two hours. Then she gives me the address of a pub on Jermyn Street—Abracadabra—where, according to her, we’ll be able to “talk freely.”
“I feel like I just shook hands with the devil,” I tell Xavier, smirking as I set my phone down.
He looks over, expression unreadable. “You don’t have to come.”
“She asked for both of us,” I say. “So yeah, I kind of do.”
His eyes drop to my leg. “You should be resting.”
“You too,” I say with a short laugh. “We’re both kind of wrecked. But if you think talking to her might help, we’ll go together.”
He nods slowly, like he’s still thinking it through, but doesn’t say anything. His phone buzzes again. Xavier glances at the screen, jaw tightening.
“Who is it?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. I’m not trying to sound jealous—I just want to know.
“Ernest,” he says flatly. “Guess barging in wasn’t enough.”
“Yeah,” I say, my face warming at the thought. “That was…rough. I almost feel bad for him. We might’ve cracked something in his psyche.”
Xavier rolls his eyes. “That’s on him. He didn’t knock.”
I snort—and he does too, just barely. It eases something between us. He keeps watching me, too long, and I don’t look away.
My pulse kicks when his hand drifts to my thigh, fingers brushing the side of my knee.
Flashes from this morning hit me hard—the feel of his mouth, the grip of his hands, the way he came undone in mine. I swear I can still taste him. Heat curls in my stomach, and when I meet his eyes again, I know he’s thinking the same thing.
His phone buzzes again, cutting through the moment and snapping us back to reality.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Xavier says quickly, pulling his hand away without looking at me.
Before I can say anything, he’s already up, dropping the apron onto the chair and heading for the bathroom, tugging his T-shirt over his head as he goes. I watch him, eyes tracing the shape of his back, my heart thudding.
Even after last night, there’s still tension between us—not distance, exactly, but that quiet awkwardness of figuring out how to exist around each other now. His confession still doesn’t feel real, and I can sense how cautious he is.
I know I should give him space. But I also want him to know I meant it—that I’m truly in love with him and didn’t just say it out of guilt or obligation. Because what’s becoming clearer by the minute is this: Xavier overthinks all of it just as much as I do.
When I hear the bathroom door lock behind him, I stay in the kitchen, tidy up a bit, then head to my room to get dressed.
When I come back downstairs, I realize the living room’s still a mess from last night.
I start sweeping up shards of glass and porcelain when there’s a knock—then the door opens, and Mr. and Mrs. Waverly peek in.
“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Waverly says as she steps inside, her face a mix of concern and warmth. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, setting the broom aside. “Did you hear what happened?”
“Yes, we came by earlier,” Mr. Waverly says, following his wife inside. “Xavier told us you were in the hospital. Said the burglar stabbed you.”
“Yeah,” I say with a short laugh. “But the doctors patched me up.”
“You shouldn’t be cleaning,” Mrs. Waverly says, frowning. “Leave it—Mr. Waverly and I will take care of it before lunch.”
“I appreciate it, really, but I’ve got it,” I say. She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me for a second.
“Is Xavier home?” she asks, glancing toward the kitchen.
“Yes, he’s in the shower,” I say—then immediately wince at how that sounds. Way too intimate. Like I just broadcasted we had sex. Which, okay, we did, but it was hours ago and has nothing to do with the shower. Still. My ears go hot.
Mrs. Waverly doesn’t seem to notice how flustered I am.
“How is he?” she asks gently. “This morning—he looked so worried. Pale as a sheet, shaking. Poor thing.”
“He’s better now,” I say, though my chest tightens at the thought. “How are you both holding up after everything?”
Mr. Waverly lets out a deep sigh. “Didn’t sleep much, Newton. I called Garrett this morning—he’ll be here in about an hour to change the locks.”
“Thanks,” I say. “We’re heading out soon, so just let yourself in.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Waverly nods. We stand in a moment of awkward silence before he adds, “Well, go on then. Glad to see you’re feeling better, Newton.”
“Thanks, Mr. Waverly,” I say with a smile.
“Call us if you need anything,” Mrs. Waverly adds, and then they’re gone.
I finish cleaning, even as my leg starts to protest. Once I’m done, I sink onto the couch and pull out my phone to check the news. One of the articles has a photo of me from yesterday—standing outside the house—under the headline: Doherty Makes a Statement.
I don’t bother reading it. I already know what it says.
I scroll through the news and spot a few more articles with pictures of me and Xavier, but I don’t bother clicking. After everything that’s happened, I’m not about to ruin the morning with gossip.
Then I come across a Chronicle article—thankfully, not about us. There’s a photo of two men, and I recognize one of them as Minister Craig. The other looks familiar too, though I can’t place him. I figure he must be the special advisor caught up in the scandal.
I don’t know much about the scandal—just what Fred said when he came over—but I still feel for the Minister and his advisor. True or not, their story’s getting the same treatment: pulled out of context, spun into headlines, passed around for clicks.
Then I see the byline: Bernard Nimoy. I’ve only known him a week, but he struck me as a good guy—grounded, sharp, thoughtful. A real journalist. But even he, apparently, isn’t above publishing a piece like this.
Sure, Minister Craig’s a conservative with a wife and kids, and yeah, the hypocrisy makes it messier. But after everything with Xavier and me, I’m not sure I can stomach that kind of gossip anymore.
I check the time and wonder if I’ve got enough to shower before we head out. Probably—but I’m not convinced wrapping my leg in plastic will actually keep the bandages dry. I hesitate, then decide to try.
Xavier must be out of the bathroom by now, so I grab clean clothes from my room and head to the kitchen to find the plastic wrap. The whole thing feels ridiculous—and I must look it too, walking down the hall with a pile of clothes and a roll of cling film awkwardly tucked under my arm.
With my hands full, I try to push the bathroom door open with my elbow—only for it to swing inward and send me stumbling right into Xavier.