Page 19 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

If anyone ever comes for her, if they so much as breathe her name like it’s a crime, I’ll bury the badge, burn the evidence, and make it my holy fucking mission to keep her untouched.

Even if I have to bleed for it. Even if I’m just her next mistake.

I can still hear her laugh, smug and knowing, like she’s already picked out the shovel I’ll use to bury myself for her.

Chapter Eight

Jennifer

Things always look a little better with a properly cream-cheesed bagel. Not that life’s good, exactly, just less terrible when I’m gnawing on something carb-based and smeared with a dairy product thick enough to double as spackle. The bagel crunches, the smear oozes, and for one sacred, holy-cheesed minute, I’m not thinking about dead men, well-endowed neighbors, or how long it’s been since I came without assistance from AA batteries and poor decisions.

I lick a glob of cheese off my thumb and stare at my phone.

Blake.

Fucking Blake. Hot, thoughtful, infuriating Blake with those forearms that scream pin me down and say please and that stupid perfect smile that demolishes my survival instincts.

I shouldn’t want him. He’s not part of the plan. But plans buckle under the weight of tight jeans and that goddamn laugh.

I want to ride him like the apocalypse is scheduled for Tuesday and I’m behind on orgasms.

Not smart. Might help. Might reset my brain chemistry. Might also end in me accidentally catching feelings, which is significantly more dangerous than catching a body.

Four dates, I remind myself. Blake’s on date… what? One and a half? Two if you count over the fence flirtation. Which I might.

I sigh. Bite. Chew.

Then there’s Edgar.

My little goth mortician. All sandwich-based seduction and razor-precise usefulness. He fascinates me, like if funeral homescame with a “do me against the embalming table” loyalty program. I want to see what he’s like in his natural habitat. Whether he winces when I ask about cremating… pets. Lots of pets. Definitely not men. Not unless he asks the right questions.

It’s about establishing a working relationship. Practicality. Logistics. Getting a feel for his comfort zone. And maybe cleaning out a few stray skeletons before Carson starts sniffing too close to the petunias.

Carson.

I’ll deal with him soon. Maybe after orgasms. Or arson. Or both.

After another bite, I open my phone and stare at my dating app. The icon pulses like an infected wound. I tap it. Pause. Then delete it with a flick of my thumb.

I don’t need it anymore. I can find what I need without apps, without small talk, without pretending to care about their favorite podcast. These men aren’t cryptids. They’re not even hiding. The world is full of assholes just waiting to show their teeth.

I’ve got a full tank of gas, a garden full of secrets, and a to-do list that smells like cookies and gunpowder.

Time to pay Edgar a visit.

Fun thing about small towns? They all have a bakery, and it’s always run by a woman who fled the city after a messy divorce or a scandal involving PTO embezzlement, came home for Christmas, boned her high school ex during a snowstorm, and never left. Now she bakes sourdough with alarming eye contact and moonlights as the town’s sugar-coated matchmaker and head gossip.

Which works out for me today. The bell over the door gives a polite little chime as I step inside.

“Morning!” chirps the woman behind the counter. Cookie. Yes, really. Cookie. Small town bakery owners always havenames that sound like stripper aliases or kindergarten nicknames, and I can’t decide which is scarier. She’s got that smile like she’s one therapy session away from frosting her husband into a shallow grave. “What can I get you?”

“I’d like a mid-morning snack for the kind of person who might order a cherry cheese Danish… with the cherries on the side. In a separate dish.” And maybe a side of railing me against a cold metal gurney, but that’s probably not on the menu. There’s a specific kind of person who needs that level of dessert discretion. A man who handles bodies for a living and still thinks warmed fruit is offensive.

Cookie’s smile tightens like I just spit lemon juice into her gums. “Oh. Edgar, you mean?”

I shrug. “Maybe.” As if half this nosy little zip code won’t see me pull into the funeral home and immediately bring it up at the next town meeting like it’s a zoning concern.

“He won’t want a Danish. Those were made last night.” She says this like I’m a complete disappointment. “He’ll want a raspberry crumble. It’s fresh. I’ll put the icing on the side. Heated. You’ll want to get it to him within the hour or he’ll hate it.”

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