Page 6 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“You don’t want that,” Raven says. “May I suggest?”

“Sure,” I say, openly staring now. I’m the pervert. I’ve joined the dark side and it smells like fresh bread and cologne. “I like regular food. White bread. Ham and cheese. Meatball, maybe.” I sound like a virgin at a wine tasting. Someone take my mouth license away.

He smiles, and his eyes go full sapphire-mode. Like, DND magical item level glow. My nipples file a formal request for attention. Thank God for t-shirt bras. I stuff my hands in my pockets and try not to drool on the tile.

“Let’s aim for ordinary,” he says, “but with taste.” Like he’s designing a sandwich and seducing me in the same breath.

Then he locks eyes with the sandwich guy like they’re about to duel. “Hawaiian bread,” he begins, “but only if you’ve made it fresh today. Otherwise, a classic sub roll. Black Forest ham and Havarti, but only if you’ve got the fresh Hawaiian. If not…”

“We have Hawaiian,” the guy cuts in.

“Lovely. Give her a side of cranberry sauce. Not jellied. Please serve it in a saucer so it doesn’t get juice on the bread beforehand.” He turns to me, one brow lifted. “Forgive me,” he says, dead serious, “but do you have a fruit preserve preference?”

Who asks that? Who means that? Who sounds sensual while saying it?

“I… don’t think so?” I gesture with both hands in the ancient feminine rite of no thoughts, only vibes. “I like cranberry sauce.”

Because I don’t know what fruit preserves go with ham and cheese. I usually use mayo like a raccoon in a 7-Eleven dumpster.

“Perfect. And do you like condiments? Perhaps served on the side so you can have a different experience in every bite?”

It’s just lunch.

“Please, yes,” I say, turning to the guy behind the counter. “A side of mayo and mustard.”

Raven tilts his head. “Real mayo, and give her the new honey mustard too. On the side. Obviously.”

What is this? Why is this suggestive?

When we step aside to wait, I’m still scanning him for flaws. He did take over my sandwich order, but it wasn’t that alpha-control crap. It was… considerate. Like he genuinely wanted me to enjoy my sandwich and not, you know, suffer in silence with food regret and trust issues.

“Thanks for the sandwich save and the unsolicited flavor orgasm,” I say. “I’m Jennifer.”

“Edgar,” he replies, smiling like a man who knows exactly how much to charm without triggering my fight-or-murder reflex. “And I’m sorry I hijacked your lunch order like a deranged Gordon Ramsay. It’s just this place has the best if you know what to ask for. And they’ll serve you cardboard at the same price if you don’t.” He watches them build our sandwiches with almost reverent focus.

It feels… dangerously close to a date.

And if it is? It’s already blowing Derik’s greasy little Buffalo sauce ghost out of the water.

They call our names, his first, then mine, and he gestures toward the tiny table shoved against the window like it’s some kind of VIP section.

“Want to eat here?” he asks, already halfway sitting. “I promise not to critique your chewing.”

It’s already the best date of my week and no one’s even cried yet. “Sure,” I say sweetly. “But if you start scoring my bites like it’s the Olympics, I will stab you. This fork is compostable, not harmless.”

He grins like I just flirted. I might have. Jury’s out.

I unwrap the sandwich, and I swear to god, it glows. The bread is still warm. The ham is layered like it was folded by a Michelin-star origamist. The cranberry sauce looks like something Martha Stewart wept over. There’s even a tiny sprig of rosemary on the plate.

“What in the elevated charcuterie hell,” I whisper. “This is food porn. This is edible foreplay.”

He leans in like he’s delivering state secrets. “Bite it now. You want the bread warm enough to melt into the cheese. It’s a window.”

I do as instructed. And I moan. Actually moan. Like “deleted scene from a romance novel” moan.

A PTA-looking woman two tables over clutches her pearls. I don’t care. My mouth is full of salt and sweet and melty magic.

“Holy shit,” I manage, once I remember how to breathe. “I’ve eaten trash all my life.”

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