CHAPTER 15. STORM #5
He catches me around the waist, steadying me. He’s warm. Damp. And when I look up, I realize—he’s just out of the shower. I go still.
My gaze skims the wet line down his neck, across his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach and the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the towel. It hangs low on his hips, slung like an afterthought.
My throat goes dry.
“Sorry,” I mumble, straightening and forcing my hands off his biceps.
But he doesn’t let go. He just looks at me—eyes dark, breath uneven—then says, “Do you need help?”
“Uh,” I say, not immediately sure what he means.
“With your leg,” Xavier clarifies.
“Ah. No,” I say, my voice catching. I clear my throat. “We need to head out soon, so I’ll be quick.”
He holds my gaze for a moment, unreadable. Then he nods. “Alright.” And lets me go.
“Thanks,” I say as he steps past me, heading out of the room. “I’ll be out soon.”
Xavier nods but doesn’t say anything else.
***
An hour later, we’re finally out of the apartment, and it’s snowing again—soft, wet flakes that melt the second they hit the ground, leaving the pavement dark and slick.
As we get into the stuffy car, Xavier doesn’t say a word—just slides in beside me, our shoulders brushing. He’s been quiet ever since our awkward run-in in the bathroom, but I’m not sure if it’s something I did or if he’s just in one of his bad moods.
He’s nothing like he was this morning—tense now, withdrawn. As soon as we settle into the back seat, he folds his arms tight across his chest and stares at the back of the driver’s seat like he’s trying to drill a hole through it.
We pull away from Hickory Road, and the silence stretches. Ten minutes in, he still hasn’t said a word.
I don’t want him to shut down. Not after everything that happened this morning. Not after he told me he loved me.
Though part of me still wonders if that really happened—or if it was just a fever dream brought on by my leg going septic.
So I do something I wouldn’t have done before: I reach over and give Xavier a light pat on the thigh. It’s nothing, really—quick, casual—but it feels oddly comfortable. Like something you’d do without thinking, if you’d been together for years.
He glances over, raising an eyebrow. We were never really tactile before—not intentionally, at least—so this is unfamiliar territory for both of us.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low enough that the driver won’t hear.
Xavier softens almost immediately—I see it in the way his shoulders ease.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You sure?” I say, giving his thigh another light pat.
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s turned slightly toward me, not quite meeting my eyes, his gaze lingering somewhere near my shoulder. But I can feel it—his focus is all on my hand, like he’s trying not to stare, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
“You look like you could use a kiss,” I say, bumping his shoulder with mine.
Xavier freezes, throwing me a quick look—caught off guard. Then he rolls his eyes, color rising in his cheeks, but I catch the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I glance at the driver to make sure he’s not watching, then lean in and press a quick kiss to Xavier’s cheek.
His face flushes deeper, turning from pink to scarlet. He shifts closer and cups my face in his hand, still not quite meeting my eyes. His thumb brushes my cheek. There’s something quiet in his expression—almost solemn—as he studies me.
“You look really sad,” I say, my breath catching, heart hammering.
“I might need another kiss,” he murmurs, just above a whisper. He blinks slowly, eyes finally finding mine.
I laugh. And this time, when I lean in, I don’t bother checking the mirror. I pull him close and kiss him. Xavier’s mouth opens instantly, his tongue brushing mine, his breath hot against my face.
Just that—just a touch of his tongue—and I’m gone. The need to pull him close, get his clothes off, feel his skin—it’s burning in my chest, driving me out of my mind.
The kiss deepens—our breath mixing, his hand sliding into my hair, pulling me in. I’m aching, head spinning, and God, I really don’t want this to stop.
“Should I drop you at the nearest hotel, lovebirds?” the driver says, cutting through the haze like a slap.
We freeze.
Then let go of each other all at once.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, sitting up and fixing my clothes, not brave enough to look at the driver.
“Sorry,” Xavier says too—but he’s not talking to the driver.
We spend the rest of the ride in silence. Xavier keeps his eyes on his phone, not looking at me, but the tension between us is thick—almost physical. I can feel it where our shoulders touch, where our knees brush. It hums under the skin like static.
When the car finally pulls up outside a dim little pub tucked between Bury and Jermyn, I almost sigh in relief. The heat in the backseat was getting to me.
We get out, the cold air scraping off the warmth. I shut the door behind me and glance at Xavier as he walks around the car.
He nods toward the building.
“Strange place to meet in the afternoon,” he says, frowning—already back to normal, like we didn’t just get called out by the taxi driver for making out in the backseat.
“Hope she’s not planning to kill us in here,” I mutter with a dark smirk. The heavy metal door looks more like the entrance to a shady drug den than a pub.
Inside, we’re hit with the stale reek of smoke and music blaring from beaten-up speakers nailed to the walls. The place is empty, but it still feels off—like we should already be working out escape routes.
A narrow corridor branches off to the side, almost claustrophobic in the dim light.
Closed booths line both walls like compartments on a train.
Near one of them, I spot a waitress with a thin blonde ponytail, struggling to balance a tray of dirty plates in one hand and a half-empty jug of juice in the other.
I watch her fumble with it, half-absently, wondering if I should offer to help.
Then I notice Xavier watching me, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“What?” I say, glancing at him.
“Nothing,” he says quickly, a little too fast.
I narrow my eyes, but before I can say anything, the waitress notices us.
“Hello there,” she says. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Can you show us to a table?”
“Sure,” she nods toward the booth she just left. “You can sit in here—I just cleaned it. I’ll be right back with you.”
“Thanks,” I say, and Xavier and I step inside.
The room’s quieter than expected, the music just a faint hum in the background. Two small couches face each other with a narrow table wedged between them. Xavier slides into the booth first, and I settle beside him.
I pick up the menu. “You want anything?” I ask, glancing at him.
He just shakes his head, clearly lost in thought. I can’t tell if it’s about the case or something else.
We’re twenty minutes early, so I flip through the menu, thinking about getting a coffee.
Maybe something sweet. The cherry pie doesn’t look bad, but my appetite’s off.
The meeting’s already sitting heavy in my stomach.
Nothing good’s going to come of it—that much I can feel.
I close the menu and set it back on the table.
The waitress comes back, a little out of breath, and offers us a wide smile. “What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll have a coffee,” I say, giving Xavier a quick glance.
“Two coffees,” he says. “One with a slice of lemon on the side.”
“Alright,” she nods. “Anything to eat?”
“No thanks,” I say.
She winks at me before stepping out and pulling the door shut behind her.
Xavier gives me one of those long, unreadable looks.
“Since when do you drink your coffee with lemon?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t,” he says. “It’s for you.”
I blink. “For me?”
“Yes. You always drink coffee with lemon.”
“Not always,” I say, though my heart’s picking up again.
“Always—when we have lemons,” Xavier corrects.
We go quiet, just looking at each other. My skin’s buzzing from the sudden warmth.
“I can’t believe you noticed that,” I say finally, my voice low.
Xavier shrugs, like it’s nothing—like it didn’t mean anything. But it does. I’ve known him for over a year, and only now am I starting to really see him.
We fall quiet again. A couple of minutes later, the waitress comes back with a tray. She sets down two coffees, a saucer with a lemon slice, and a plate holding a piece of cherry pie.
“On the house,” she says, smiling right at me.
“Oh,” I say, a little surprised—it’s exactly the one I was eyeing earlier. “That’s really kind of you.”
“I would’ve brought two, but that was the last slice,” she adds, tossing Xavier a quick glance—nowhere near apologetic.
“It’s fine—” he says, jaw tight, but I cut in.
“We’ll share,” I say, flashing him a grin. “Right, baby?”
I mostly say it to mess with the waitress—but it’s Xavier who gets thrown off. His eyes go wide, color rising fast in his cheeks, his whole expression stunned.
“Great,” the waitress says, flashing us both a wide, clearly fake smile before hurrying out of the room.
Once she’s gone, I say, “Sorry about that.” Now that we’re alone, I feel a little stupid for the whole thing. “She was kind of rude to you, so I—”
Xavier kisses me. No warning. Just shuts me up with his mouth against mine and his hand in my hair.
It’s a thank-you kiss—I can feel that—but it’s heated too.
It lingers for a few long seconds before we both pull back, breathing hard, acutely aware that the woman dying to write another little gossip piece about our love life could walk in any minute.
“What was that for?” I ask after a beat, smiling, still a little breathless.
“For the pie,” Xavier says, deadpan. Then, after a beat: “For everything. Especially for annoying Ernest this morning—I thought he was going to have a stroke.”
I laugh. “Don’t be too hard on him. Today’s the day I actually kinda started to like him.”