Detectives in love, p.1
Detectives in Love, page 1
Detectives in Love
Gaia Tate
© Copyright 2025 by Gaia Tate. All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2025 by Gaia Tate
FIC027190
Subscribe to Gaia Tate’s newsletter
TikTok @authorgaiatate
Instagram @authorgaiatate
E-mail authorgaiatate@gmail.com
Table of Contents
Content Notes
CHAPTER 1. PRESSED
CHAPTER 2. RUMORS
CHAPTER 3. OUT
CHAPTER 4. THE UNCLE
CHAPTER 5. EX
CHAPTER 6. COMPANY
CHAPTER 7. TOUCH
CHAPTER 8. TANGLED
CHAPTER 9. HINGE
CHAPTER 10. EXPOSED
CHAPTER 11. DISQUIET
CHAPTER 12. OXYGEN
CHAPTER 13. LINES
CHAPTER 14. LURED
CHAPTER 15. STORM
CHAPTER 16. FLASH ROYAL
CHAPTER 17. SCOOP!
CHAPTER 18. HOME
CHAPTER 19. KISS AND CONTROL
Content Notes
This book contains on-page violence (stabbing/shooting), media harassment, adult language, mutual pining, explicit sex scenes.
CHAPTER 1. PRESSED
The headline hits like a punch to the gut.
I sit at the kitchen table with a plate of scrambled eggs and a mug of coffee in front of me, and freeze—head spinning.
The Weekend Herald lies open on the table, glaring up at me like a neon sign.
My appetite disappears. The coffee goes cold in its mug, untouched. My heart slams against my ribs, my throat tightening as the oversized headline screams at me: “PARTNERS IN CRIME…AND BETWEEN THE SHEETS?”
The words are shameless, plastered across the first spread in stark black ink, daring me to look closer. Below the headline is a massive photograph flanked by two smaller ones—grainy and black-and-white, but the people in them are unmistakable.
My stomach churns as I take them in, horror mounting with every second. There we are—Xavier Ormond and me—caught on camera, looking way too intimate to explain.
The fork slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. I don’t even care. All I can do is stare, my face burning with humiliation, my brain scrambling for answers.
Where the hell did these pictures come from? When were they taken? And most importantly—who took them?
The largest photo shows Xavier and me standing near our apartment building on Hickory Road. Xavier’s wearing that dark blue shirt—the one that’s always a little too tight across his annoyingly broad shoulders—with a gray coat over it. His hand is outstretched, casually adjusting the collar of my buttoned-up shirt beneath my unzipped winter jacket.
My throat tightens as I stare at the image. I remember this moment all too well. It was less than a week ago, right after we wrapped up the case of the fashion model’s fake suicide. On our way home, Xavier decided to entertain himself by “reading” me—like some absurd profiler, his gaze narrowing in mock concentration as he smirked and sized me up.
A wave of unease washes over me as I stare at the photo. I remember this exact moment—but not like this. I remember being annoyed by Xavier, defensive, my arms crossed tight over my chest. And yeah, they’re crossed in the photo—but I look…thirsty. The way I’m staring at him—eyes practically heart-shaped, like I’m not just in love with him, but like I want him.
The idea that I might always look at him like that makes my stomach twist. My lips are parted, my gaze soft, my chest almost caving in, like his very presence is pressing down on me. God, I couldn’t even blame this on photoshop or AI—no one could fake something like that. That’s really me, unfiltered—and somehow, that makes it infinitely worse.
Does Xavier see it? Does he know how far gone I am for him? He must. But at least he has the decency to pretend he doesn’t. The whole world, though? They’re not going to be so kind to me.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
God, I’m so screwed.
***
“This buttoned-up look of yours says it all,” Xavier says, smugness practically oozing out of him.
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “Enlighten me—what does it say?”
“That you’re all discipline,” he declares, folding his arms like he’s giving a TED Talk. “It shows constraints and expectations. Society’s weight on your shoulders. Self-imposed limitations. Suppression. Self-control.”
I blink, deadpan. “Wow. And here I thought it just said I know how to dress myself.”
He chuckles, that familiar teasing edge making my chest tighten despite myself. His gaze holds mine, a glint of mischief in his eyes, like he’s toying with me—like he’s brushing his fingers down my spine without even touching me.
“You’re such a good boy,” Xavier continues, his tone silky. “It shows in everything you do—right down to the very last button.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I swallow hard, forcing my voice to stay even. “Ha-ha, very funny, Xavier. But I’m not one of your fangirls, so stop showing off. I’m not a good boy—at least, not the way you think. And as for my collar? It has nothing to do with your ridiculous theory. I just like it that way.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms, rolling my eyes for good measure. “It might be hard for you to believe, but some of us don’t enjoy showing off our bodies like you do.”
Xavier tilts his head, calm as ever, like I’m a child caught in a lie he saw through from the start.
“That’s not it either.”
I scowl. “Oh, really?”
His gaze drifts over me for a fraction of a second before locking back on my face. “You have a nice body.”
The air between us tightens, like a string pulled taut. My face burns as I scramble for a response.
“Well, I’m not as young as you, and I don’t have as many muscles,” I blurt, the words spilling out too fast.
“You’re thirty-four,” Xavier says slowly, mock thoughtful. A faint, wry smile tugs at his lips. “Only three years older than me. And I’ve seen you naked—you’ve got plenty of muscle.”
The memory hits like a slap, heat flooding my face. I know exactly what he’s talking about—the day he found me on the brink of death on the Carver’s dissection table. But even now, just hearing him say it makes my neck burn.
I cough, clearing my throat and shifting from one foot to the other. “Okay, maybe I don’t like people staring at my scars,” I mutter, looking anywhere but at him.
“No,” Xavier says, shaking his head like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Still not it.”
Before I can react, he steps forward and undoes the collar button of my shirt. I jolt back, a whimper escaping my lips before I can stop it.
“What the hell are you doing—?”
“Nothing.” He smirks, his expression smug, and then, just like that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the building before I can even respond.
***
The other two photos are from Little Italy, the cozy restaurant on Burch Street with windows decked out in Christmas garlands, branches, and twinkling lights. In both shots, Xavier has a plate of steak in front of him, while I have a salad and a cup of coffee.
They were taken the night before last—I remember it vividly. The first one, taken from inside the restaurant, shows Xavier staring out the window at the snow-covered street. His right hand rests in the middle of the table, so close to mine that, from this angle, it almost looks like we’re holding hands. Who even managed to capture that? Worse, in the photo, I’m looking down—at his hand. At our hands.
The second photo is taken from outside, through the frosted glass. It shows us leaning forward on our elbows, our faces so close it looks like we’re about to kiss. The intensity in our gazes is…unsettling, even to me. To anyone else, it would definitely raise questions.
That night, we’d just closed another case, and instead of celebrating, we ended up having one of our more serious arguments over dinner. Not that you’d ever guess from these pictures. In the photos, we look…intimate. As if we didn’t spend most of the meal trading pointed remarks and barely masking our frustration.
It’s strange how a single snapshot can rewrite reality, freezing a moment in time and erasing everything that came before or after. A version of us that only exists in media rumors, not in the mundane, complicated reality we actually share.
***
“So, you lied to everyone.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone, including me,” I say, my jaw tightening.
Xavier blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Are you offended?”
“No. Why would I be?” I snort, but the sarcasm barely hides the irritation in my voice. “Well…maybe a little.”
Something flickers in his eyes—confusion, maybe?—as he runs a hand through his hair, a rare sign of frustration.
I glance down at my untouched salad, pick up my fork, and halfheartedly poke at a slice of tomato. I flip it over, then set the fork down on the napkin, my appetite completely gone.
“Damn it, Xav
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, refusing to look at him as my heart thunders in my throat.
“Newt.”
“What?”
Xavier’s eyes are on me, his brow furrowed like he’s searching for something he can’t quite find. He hesitates, then says, “It’s not…it doesn’t mean I don’t trust you.”
“Then what does it mean?”
There’s something almost somber in the way his blue eyes hold mine, something heavy I can’t quite pin down. He motions vaguely between us and says, his voice so quiet it nearly blends into the hum of the restaurant, “I’m not used to…this.”
I frown, not sure what this is supposed to mean—and honestly, I don’t care. “We can’t be partners if you keep leaving me behind,” I say firmly.
For a few seconds, Xavier just looks at me, blinking like he’s processing what I said. Then, without a word, he turns away, his attention shifting to the snow-covered street outside the window.
***
After what happened at Little Italy, Xavier and I didn’t exchange a single word until the next morning.
“Good morning,” I said, glancing up from my plate as he walked into the kitchen.
“Morning,” Xavier muttered, his mood unmistakably sour.
That was the full extent of our conversation before my sister, Monica, called to invite me out for a drink later that evening. Honestly, I was relieved for the excuse to leave the apartment. Xavier was in one of his moods—the kind he always sinks into between cases. Symptoms: loud sighing, pacing the apartment like a restless animal, and snapping at every question I dare to ask.
I hadn’t planned on staying out late, but on my way back from meeting Monica, I ran into an old friend from high school, Fred Collins. He was thrilled to see me—practically bouncing on his heels—and suggested grabbing a drink at a bar nearby. I hesitated for about half a second before agreeing, grateful for another distraction. Anything to avoid going back to Xavier’s storm cloud of a mood.
We drank for a couple of hours, catching up on everything that had happened in our lives over the years. Fred had gone to college after high school and started writing part-time for a small newspaper. He’d also gotten married somewhere along the way and now had four kids. Listening to him talk about his family made me smile; it felt surreal to see a friend from high school all grown up, with a life so different from mine.
When it was my turn, I gave him the rundown of my own path: how I went from studying to be a CSI tech to working as an independent investigator and true crime writer. I even told him about the Carver case—the one that left me with scars all over my body, both literal and figurative.
I mentioned Xavier, but only briefly. Just that we’d met during the Carver case and later co-founded the Partners-in-Crime detective agency. I didn’t get into the details—like how Xavier saved me from the Carver’s den, showing up with a police squad just in time to stop the bastard from cutting my heart out. And I definitely didn’t mention that we lived together now, sharing a cozy two-bedroom apartment-slash-work-office in the city center. It wasn’t like that would’ve been the strangest thing, especially with the cost of living crisis, but explaining it felt…complicated.
We spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about our college years and arguing over the Soccer World Cup semi-finals. After a few rounds of beer, we switched to tequila, and for the first time in days, I stopped thinking about Xavier entirely. I relaxed, letting myself just be a regular guy for a while.
By the time I made it home, it was after three in the morning.
How I’d even gotten there was a bit of a blur, but I tried to be quiet as I fumbled with my keys at the front door. My hands were clumsy, and it took me way too long to find the lock. Finally, the door creaked open, and I stumbled through the dark hallway, my feet dragging as I made my way toward the living room.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t figure out why it was so dark. My hand fumbled along the wall, searching for the light switch. Then I tripped over something—maybe a chair, maybe a shoe—and cursed loudly, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.
Before I knew it, I was on the floor.
***
Everything around me blurs, the alcohol clouding my senses. Time seems to skip.
…a light flashes on, harsh and unkind, making me wince. Black pajama pants come into view.
“Ah, Xavier! Hello there,” I drawl, grinning up at the figure towering over me.
Xavier’s face appears above me—upside down, wearing an expression that is equal parts irritated and unimpressed.
“You’re drunk,” he says flatly, arms crossed.
“Who’s drunk?” I reply, my voice pitched in mock indignation.
The world swirls again, pulling me under.
***
That was last night.
When I woke up this morning, my head was pounding, and humiliation burned fresh in my chest. I blinked against the sunlight streaming through my window and groaned, vaguely relieved to find myself in my own bed and not sprawled on the living room floor.
Still, fragments of the night before stuck to my memory like burrs, each one more mortifying than the last. I couldn’t believe I came home wasted like that—let alone that Xavier witnessed the whole thing. I thought I’d hit peak embarrassment—until I flipped to the second page of today’s The Weekend Herald.
And here we are.
I frown, my eyes scanning the article again, agitation bubbling hot in my chest. It’s written by a journalist named Tammy Gardens, and it’s dripping with the cheap thrill of a supposed exposé. The tone is so sensationalized, in such poor taste, it almost feels personal.
“Shorewitch is buzzing with a scandal: a TWH insider claims that world-famous private detective Xavier Ormond is in love with his roommate, Newt Doherty—an independent investigator and true crime writer who co-founded the Partners-in-Crime detective agency with Ormond.
The two have been practically inseparable for over a year now, but Ormond—famous for his bachelor lifestyle and legions of admirers—has always denied any romantic or sexual involvement with Doherty. Now, an anonymous source alleges the opposite, claiming Ormond is gay and has confessed his love to Doherty, with whom he’s reportedly begun a sexual relationship.
Adding fuel to the fire, the pair were recently spotted sharing a candlelit dinner at Little Italy and flirting outside their city-center apartment (see photos)…”
My stomach twists as I read the words, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Who the hell wrote this? And what “anonymous source” decided it was their life’s mission to turn my existence into Shorewitch’s latest gossip fodder?
“…Readers may recall Xavier Ormond’s repeated claims of ‘not looking for a relationship,’ much to his fans’ dismay. But it seems Mr. Ormond may have finally had a change of heart—or perhaps his connection with Mr. Doherty is purely physical.
Insiders whisper about Ormond’s legendary libido, and speculation is running wild: is this romance the real deal, or just a no-strings fling? Either way, Shorewitch can’t stop talking—maybe the world-famous Mr. X should now be dubbed Mr. Sex…”
I slam the newspaper shut, the words rattling in my brain like loose screws. How the hell did this garbage make it to print? I’d warned Xavier that with our growing popularity, the press would eventually stop throwing us flowers and start digging for dirt, but this? Speculations about his sexuality? Insinuations—no, scratch that—blatant lies that we’re sleeping together? It’s invasive and wrong, and seeing it printed in the papers feels like a horrible violation of privacy. And yet, what stings the most is how it feels like my own secret has been dragged into the open, exposed for everyone to laugh at.
I swallow hard and glance at Xavier’s closed bedroom door.
It took me a while to admit I was in love with Xavier Ormond. My so-called bi-awakening hit me at thirty-four like a freight train, right after my first sex dream about him—which, let’s be honest, was mortifying. Especially considering how hard I’d convinced myself I was straight. I’m not even going to unpack that right now—you can probably imagine.
