Intimacy has been a fight for detective Adrian Harrison for most his life. He’s been in love with his fellow detective and silver fox, Nigel Weissinger, for years, but he’s been unable to ask the man out. Nigel is posh, handsome, and a genius. However, Nigel never dates, and despite Adrian’s flirting, doesn’t seem to notice him.
As the murder case they’ve tackled turns dangerous, Adrian ups his game by facing his intimacy wounds and making a bid for Nigel’s love. But the killer they’re closing in on aims his rage Adrian’s way. Will he die at the killer’s hands before Nigel responds?
“Adrian, it is clear we should speak of many things. One of them in particular I feel is of tantamount importance. But I admit that it seems unfitting for an office. However ...” Then Weissinger said quickly, “Do you think I --” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “That won’t do.” Frowning at his desk, he muttered, “Not like that.” He traced circles on his desk with a forefinger, so I knew he was agitated.
I did my best to hack through the jungle of half-finished sentences. The phrase we should speak of many things followed by the words tantamount importance had my undivided attention, but I couldn’t guess what he was up to. He was a genius, so as usual, I was trying to penetrate the dark glass of Weissinger’s genius mind. “Well, if it’s of tantamount importance, and it’s unfitting for an office, then I can drop by your place tonight.” I never invited him to my place. For one, it was too small for guests, but another reason was how much of a homebody Weissinger was.
“Yes. I suppose that would be best.” He didn’t look satisfied, as if he’d wanted to get this conversation done this morning, but the reality was that it was nothing doing, so he was going to settle for talking later. “In that case, we shall have supper, of course. What would you like?”
Now I knew something was up. He never asked me what I would like to eat. He always came up with something fantastic, and we cooked it together and ate it.
Despite two shocks in a row, I tilted my head to the side and studied the planter hanging in the window, which sprouted philodendron vines like a dozen tiny arms. Its green matched the mystery plant growing in a planter on the corner of Weissinger’s desk. He refused to be plantless at work. “Well, how about some nice poached salmon bathed in hollandaise sauce?”
“Yes,” Weissinger murmured. “Excellent. The classic accompaniment is asparagus, but if you would prefer to have something else?” He took notes on his phone, which he only did for culinary ideas.
“Asparagus is fine.” I took my veggies like a man. “Do you want to head straight home after work? Or do you need to go the store first? I could arrive at six.” Wait, was this a date? He asked me what I wanted, and now I was settling the time. It felt different somehow.
“Yes, I need to go to the store,” Weissinger muttered. He went back to looking at his phone. “Perhaps ... No, I couldn’t risk it. I must go myself.”
If he had considered ordering his groceries online, it was desperate. He wanted this dinner badly. I got the itchy sense that it was really a date, but it seemed too good to be true.
