Page 14 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

She talked about my ass. No, she complimented my ass. Casually. While holding a cookie like she was born to wield weaponized flirtation in a domestic setting.

“Entire ass,” I say under my breath, the words burned into my skull like they were written on the damn porch light.

My ears are hot. My palms are sweating. I’m carrying a half-empty donut bag like it’s a sacred relic and trying not to trip on the uneven pavement because my legs are weak and my brain’s doing that thing where it replays every second of the interaction on loop, but louder.

She invited me in. Made jokes about screwing things. Said I was too nice.

God. Too nice. That’s basically the death sentence of flirtation, right? Code for “sweet but unbangable.” Except shesaid it while licking sugar off her bottom lip like a woman with murder in her heart and me on her mind.

I unlock my front door with slightly trembling hands and drop the donut bag on the counter like I just returned from war. I don’t even turn the lights on. I just lean against the door and replay her voice again.

“You keep this up and I’ll think you’re into me.”

As if I’m not already so far into her I’m basically a character in her sitcom.

“Blake,” I mutter, “you’re not a teenager. You’re a grown man. You fix things. You own a vacuum. You should not be this worked up because a hot woman made a light innuendo and offered you cookies.”

But then I remember the shirt. That goddamn shirt. I LICKED IT, SO IT’S MINE. All I could think about was licking her. The curve of her waist, her thighs over my shoulders, her laughing into my mouth like sin was a team sport.

The glint in her eyes when she said “Donut Man.” The sound of her laugh when I choked on chocolate milk like a virgin at prom.

Yeah.

I’m doomed.

I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen, already planning how I can casually run into her again. Maybe I “notice” her trash can’s busted. Maybe her garden hose needs replacing. Maybe I just show up with bagels and trauma bonding.

It’s not creepy if I bring snacks.

Right?

…Right?

Chapter Six

Jennifer

I pace the kitchen like I’m going to find answers in the goddamn floorboards. I’ve already eaten three cookies. Might be four. I’m not counting. I’m stress-carbing while mentally cataloging potential threats and… dick. That’s where I’m at today. Welcome to the inside of my brain.

Did I just have another pseudo-date? With Blake?

I mean, technically he just gave me food. Not a date. Not an ambush. Just... neighborly generosity laced with enough bedroom eyes to melt my underwear.

Still not a date. Because if that was a date, then so was that whole thing with Carson, and no thank you. That man is a cop. I don’t need a badge knocking on my door for “friendly visits” while sniffing for rot in the crawlspace.

Blake, though…

God, Blake is so much. Built like a Home Depot dad fantasy and moves like sex in denim. And the man is packing. Hard to miss. I noticed a time or two. I thought about it later while my hand was very busy under the blanket.

I don’t care how nice he is, Blake screams “you’ll walk funny the next day.” And I want it. I shouldn’t, but I do.

But neighbors are messy. Neighbors see things. Hear things. Neighbors might notice the men who come to my house and... don’t come back out.

Does Blake know? He’s definitely watching. Subtly. Not creepily, more like he notices things. Has opinions. But he has to work. Eat. Shit. Shower. He can’t be watching that close. Right?

Unless he’s into it. Unless he wants to be next.

I take another bite of cookie and try not to picture Blake’s face between my thighs. Try and fail.

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