Page 58 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“I’ll have…” I glance at Edgar, then the menu, then back to the waiter. “Whatever won’t get me banned from the premises.”

The waiter stares at me. Then at Edgar. Then back at me with the kind of look that says, you’re too pretty to die this way, babe. It’s part pity, part respect. He knows I’m not walking out of here untouched. Emotionally or otherwise.

“Surprise me,” I say, closing my menu with a snap.

The waiter sighs like he’s mentally canceling his plans for the evening. He mutters and disappears into the shadows.

I lean across the table. “Do you just… do that to them? Is this a kink?”

Edgar tilts his head, lips twitching in amusement. “If taking control of my culinary experience is a kink, then yes. But I tip extravagantly. Call it aftercare.”

“You better,” I say. “That man looked like he aged a full decade while you ordered. I saw his soul attempt to crawl out his ear.”

“If I’m going to ingest something, I want to know it deserves me.”

Sweet Lucifer. I may be ovulating.

We’re halfway through dinner when I bring it up. Casual. Like I’m not planning to enter battle under a buttercream banner.

“So,” I say, dragging my fork through a puddle of sauce like I’m drawing blood from the table. “You heard about the bake-off?”

Edgar makes a soft noise. Not quite a groan. More like someone recalling the details of a historical betrayal. “I have.”

“She’s entering.”

He doesn’t have to ask who. His whole face ices over like someone just whispered a slur in fondant. “Of course she is,” he says, sipping his water like it’s gin and regret. “She can’t help herself.”

“What should I make to beat her?” I ask, like it’s a joke. Like I’m not dead serious and considering seduction via crumble topping.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the middle distance like he’s watching a movie only he can see, and it’s set in a small-town kitchen full of passive-aggressive frosting swirls and pain.

“When I was fourteen,” he says at last, voice smooth but dipped in something bitter, “I entered that same competition. It was junior division, and the theme was ‘nostalgic treats.’ I made hand-pulled toffee and vanilla marshmallows from scratch. A three-day effort. Caramelized sugar ribbons. Brûléed tops. Perfect.” He pauses. His jaw tenses. I swear he’s reliving the war. “I placed second,” he says.

“To who?”

He looks at me like I already know. Like the universe already knows. “Cookie,” he says.

My stomach drops. My ovaries stage a tiny protest, throwing rolling pins in solidarity.

“She made… Rice Krispies. With pink sprinkles,” he says, nearly spitting. “She called them ‘unicorn bars.’ One judge cried. Said it reminded him of his daughter’s birthday. There was glitter. On the plate.”

I reach across the table, touching his wrist lightly. “You were robbed.”

“I was seventeen when I tried again. Chocolate babka, swirled with pistachio. I braided it into the shape of a heart. She brought muffins shaped like puppies and named them.” He runs a hand down his face. “One was called Mr. Snickerdoodle. I got honorable mention.”

“I think I hate her,” I whisper, awed.

“That woman has weaponized whimsy and uses her ‘charm’ to colonize every fairground within a sixty-mile radius,” Edgar says.

I lean in closer. “So what’s the plan?”

He meets my gaze. Something sparks behind his eyes, something that smells like collusion and possibly lemon zest.

“We find out what she’s making.” He smiles. Slow. Sinful. “Then we beat her the old-fashioned way. With something so delicious she weeps frosting in the parking lot.”

“Sabotage is still on the table, though, right?” I ask.

“Always.”

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