Page 28 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“I do prefer control and things just so.” I stand and walk out with her.

“I noticed,” she says as we make our way to her SUV.

The air hits like a slap, and I need it. She’s thrashing every rational neuron I have. If she looks down, she’ll see exactly what she did to me.

She opens her door and doesn’t get in.

The air wafting out is death-warm and humid with guilt. “We’ll clean this properly after your next visit.”

“You didn’t freak out when I brought you my mess,” she says. Not a question. “I liked the orchid.” She leans in, tilting her head up. “Can I kiss you?” she asks, voice low. Like asking may I light the match?

My throat works around the word. “Yes.”

She does it slow, no tongue, no rush, just possession dressed as restraint. A soft press of her mouth to mine. The pressuredeepens, barely. Her hand brushes my cheek. Fingertips like a warning. Or a promise.

And just as I begin to lean in, to chase that taste, she pulls back. Only slightly. Just far enough to watch me want.

“I don’t do this on a third date,” she says, putting her hand on my chest. “Goodnight, Edgar.”

I stand frozen, heart hammering like she’s got a knife to my throat.

By the time the door clicks shut behind her, I’m breathless. Hard. And very aware that if we’d have kissed inside that would have ended differently.

Chapter Eleven

Jennifer

Okay. So I kissed Edgar. Like a sane person. After watching him dispose of bodies for me in his industrial-grade murder oven.

My headlights slice through the dark just in time to catch the sign for Cookie’s Place. Christ. So original. Sounds like a hellhole where old women go to flatline slowly over doilies and stale lemon bars.

The way she said Edgar’s name, then picked up her phone and started the gossip chain like a damn town crier in orthopedic shoes? I swear half this zip code thinks I give out blowjobs with icing on the side.

Bitch. I doubt Cookie’s out here tonguing down morticians after disposing of her exes in tripled-up tarp bags. But sure, I’m the problem.

In my defense, there was a very good dinner involved. And Edgar is so fucking sexy it should be a crime. Honestly, it might be. He’s got serial killer posture and grief counselor eyes. I’m breaking my own damn rules.

He all but said, bring me another body and I’ll make you a soufflé. That’s not a red flag. That’s a six-course promise. I’m already wondering what he’ll cook next and if I can keep my mouth off him long enough to finish it.

Spoiler: I don’t want to. That’s how it starts, right? Dinner. Desire. Then you’re picking out joint burial plots like it’s romantic. Hell, I’ll kill Derik just for an excuse to see Edgar again. That’s... probably a problem. Emotionally. Legally. Morally. Eh.

I’m not a murderer. I’m an asshole exterminator. There’s a difference. Even if that line’s been getting blurrier every time some man talks over me like I’m a barista with no brain cells and great tits.

Jesus. And then there’s Blake.

A breakfast date at my request, just so I can ogle his ass like it’s the daily special. I could sketch his back dimples blindfolded, from memory, while speaking in tongues. And that promising bulge? Burned into my cortex like a branded warning label. He smiled at me like he’d taste every inch of me if I so much as breathed yes.

I’ve never felt like this. Not about one man. Let alone two.

Maybe three, if I count Officer Doesn’t Eat Cookies and the way his deadpan paperwork made my nipples hard. God, I’m broken.

I turn the wheel with a flick of my wrist, headlights catching the glint of a trash can and an opossum that gives zero fucks about my existential crisis.

There’s a car behind me. A few blocks back.

Cop. I recognize the silhouette.

Fuck.

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