Page 12 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“Blake, right?”

“You remembered,” I say, way too fast. My brain immediately throws itself off a cliff. Cool. Coolcoolcool. Real smooth.

I lift the bag like it’s evidence in a trial. “I brought donuts. Thought you could use something sweet. Looked like a hell-date situation.”

She narrows her eyes. “You were watching me?”

Abort. Abort mission. Pull the pin and eat a grenade.

“I mean, not like in a creepy way. I was just on the way from a job and saw you and that guy, and I wasn’t eavesdropping, obviously, I just, uh happened to be driving by. With eyes. That function.” I keep vomiting from the mouth. “And then there was Officer Carson, and I thought treats? Comfort pastries? Chocolate milk for emotional support?”

Jesus, shut up, Blake.

She stares at me. Then the corner of her mouth quirks up. “I’ll see your pastries and raise you some fresh baked snickerdoodles,” she says, stepping aside. “Come in, Donut Man. I was just contemplating murder.”

Oh god, I brought donuts. She probably thinks I’m sweet. I don’t want to be sweet. I want to be pinned to the wall, fingers in her hair, while she feeds me snickerdoodles and says my name like a threat. Wait, murder? That’s a joke. Right?

“I, uh, yeah. Yeah, I can come in. If that’s cool. No pressure. Totally casual.” I step inside before she can rescind the offer and immediately regret it. The place smells like cinnamon, orange zest, and trouble. Like a Yankee Candle themed “mistakes I want to make twice.”

She kicks a pair of glitter-covered sneakers out of the way and jerks her chin at the couch. “You sure you’re not a serial killer? You always bring pastries to women who verbally eviscerate men in pub parking lots?”

“Only the ones who live next door.” I sit down, awkwardly balancing the donut bag on my knees like it’s the world’s most fragile peace offering. “Figured I’d check in. So what’s his count?”

“Derik? That was date one.” She flops into an armchair like we’ve done this a hundred times. Her legs tuck up under her, and my brain immediately malfunctions because bare feet. “He gets three more to redeem himself.”

I tip my head, trying to make sense of her logic. “Wait. That’s a system?”

“Four strikes and you’re out.” She says it like it’s obvious. “Unless he licks his knife or starts quoting Joe Rogan, then I fast-track his ass to the curb.”

“…Wait.” I squint at her. “You’ve got a sexist joke allowance?”

“One or two I can forgive if the food’s good.” She grins, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me and is deeply entertained by it.

I try not to laugh and absolutely fail. “You’re a menace,” I say and offer her the bag.

“Yeah,” she says, dragging a donut from it like it’s a priceless artifact. “I get that a lot.” She takes a bite. Her eyes flutter shut. She moans. Soft. Honest.

My entire soul leaves my body.

She looks like I just handed her the Holy Grail and told her it was filled with Nutella.

It’s not even sexual, except it is, because I’m a man with a pulse and she just moaned like that donut proposed. My dick takes it personally. I try to shift without making it obvious and fail completely.

I don’t speak. I can’t. I just watch her chew and think, not for the first time, that I’m a fucking idiot for not making a move.

She dates men who brag about their crypto portfolios and I’m over here with pastry and respect like some kind of loser.

And then she says, too casually, “You’re too nice, Blake. Keep this up and I’ll think you’re into me.”

I choke. Actually choke. On the chocolate milk. I cough so hard I might die right here on her suspiciously cozy couch.

She doesn’t even pretend to be concerned. Just leans back and smirks like she planned this exact moment. Which… she might have. And I’d still thank her for it.

“I should leave you to whatever,” I say, standing.

She disappears into the kitchen for napkins or maybe a cookie. Which is fine, because I need a second to breathe and adjust the waistband of my jeans like I didn’t just get semi-hard from watching her lick powdered sugar off her thumb. That thumb’s committed war crimes in my imagination now. I could write a whole damn fantasy novel about that thumb.

I glance at the porch, pretending like I’m not lingering. Then I notice the dead porch light again. “Hey,” I call before I can talk myself out of it, “you want me to fix that bulb while I’m here? Won’t take long to screw in a new one.”

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