Page 38 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Her eyes go wide and her hand flutters to her mouth. “Oh. I wasn’t thinking. It’s just, the blood, and I, oh, look at you.” She laughs, flustered and fucking divine. “Such a gentleman, and I’m acting like a stripper without a pole.”

Jesus pole-swinging Christ.

That visual is going to haunt me. Scratch that, fuel me. For months.

“There’s a shower in the back,” I say, trying to recover even a scrap of composure. “I always keep a change of clothes.”

Which is true. What’s also true is that now I’m picturing her in just one of my shirts. Unbuttoned. Or a suit jacket. No shirt. Maybe just a tie… looped around her wrists. Or her throat. God help me, her mouth.

“Edgar?” she says gently. “The shower? Or just clothes will be fine.”

Right. Shower. Focus.

I deposit the bloodied clothes into the oven, evidence, lingerie, lust, all marinating in carbon and chaos, and lead her to the small shower room behind my office.

Inside, I flip the light, show her where the soap is, retrieve a towel, and fold it carefully like that’s the thing keeping me from pouncing.

Then, because I have absolutely no survival instincts, I ask, “Would you like help? Cleaning off the DNA.”

Her brows lift. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t mock. She just says, “I absolutely would… but I have rules.”

Rules. Of course she does.

“If we’re counting the sub shop, then breakfast, and our dinner, that only puts us at date three. I don’t do anything intimate beyond kissing or heavy petting until after date four. If you haven’t red-flagged out.” She starts to tug down her panties.

I’m going to die.

Fuck me sideways with a hacksaw, now she’s naked. Just… standing there. Covered in drying blood and bright florescent light and the sheer force of my obliterated restraint.

“A shower would count as intimate, I assume?” I ask, voice shredded thin. “And tonight doesn’t count? But the pastries did?”

“Tonight is technically work,” she says, stepping back into the stall. “There was no food. No movie. So, not a date.” She pauses. Smiles. “But the pastries definitely counted.”

“Right,” I say, trying to memorize the curve of her back as she disappears behind the curtain. “I’ll find you something to wear. Make a snack. And we’ll talk about my red flag evaluation over fourth-date finger food.”

The first thing I do is find her something to wear.

She’s small, short enough that one of my shirts could pass for a dress on her. It probably wouldn’t button around her curves, and that suits me just fine. A jacket on its own, though? Sexy. Dangerous. Decadent.

Yes. The jacket. And a tie just for fun.

I drape both over the sink like it’s some kind of offering. A shrine to temptation.

Then I retreat to the kitchen. It feels like the only safe place left in the building.

Feeding her is not something I take lightly. This isn’t a snack, it’s post-homicide refueling. She needs something balanced. Something nourishing. Something that says I see you. I’ll take care of you. Even the messy parts.

I raid the fridge and find a few blocks of cheese, red bell peppers, and cherry tomatoes so ripe they’re practically bursting. I chop and slice with precision, hands steady, heart riotous. In the cupboard I find garlic butter crackers.

She’s in my shower.

I pour a glass of wine. Not the cheap stuff, something with depth, with a finish that lingers. I set the table with care, place the crackers just so. Chocolate pudding and graham crackers for dessert. Sweetness after blood. Closure. Comfort. A promise.

It’s not gourmet. But it’s not gas station either.

I’m just adjusting the last plate when she walks out, and I forget how to breathe.

She’s wearing the jacket. Only the jacket.

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