Page 59 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

God help me, I think I’m falling in love.

But the moment doesn’t get to linger. The interruption starts as a whisper. A rustle of polyester and righteous indignation.

We’re between bites of dessert, his plate nearly spotless, mine sacrificed to the gods of emotional overeating, when the voices drift over from two tables down. A clutch of middle-aged women in matching capri pants and the kind of lipstick shade only sold with a free side of passive aggression. They’re leaning toward each other like they’re trying to form a coven of condescension.

“He was always so strange,” one says in the kind of whisper designed to carry. “Wore gloves to the farmer’s market. And didn’t he talk to his food?”

Her friend gasps. “And isn’t she the one from that Tramble thing? The missing man? I swear I saw her picture on the news site. Or was it Facebook?”

“Oh, definitely her,” another chimes in, eyes flicking toward me like I won’t notice. “You can tell by the lipstick. And that mole, like a witch’s mark.”

They giggle. A fourth one mutters, “Two of a kind. Creeps belong together.”

And then, the kill shot: “He might’ve met his match. Even that nice boy Derik she dated vanished.”

I still. Just for a moment. Fork mid-air. My blood pressure ascending like a fucking phoenix.

Edgar reaches across the table and, without breaking eye contact, gently slides my steak knife out of reach.

“Dessert,” he says calmly, like he’s recommending a spa treatment, “is better when it’s not served with a side of felony.”

My fingers are still curled in attack formation, but my killer instinct short-circuits, too busy imagining dessert as a euphemism. “You heard them?”

He hums, inspecting the knife like he’s deciding if it deserves to be returned to me later. “The one in the pink visor is basically live-streaming her contempt.”

“I could throw a shrimp tail directly into her throat from here,” I say, eyes narrowing.

“You could. But then we’d have to flee, and I was hoping to dance with you later.”

That slows me. “Dance?”

His lips curl. “There’s a live band in the park. Jazz standards. You in my arms. The kind of thing that makes gossips spontaneously combust.”

I look down at my empty plate. Then back at him. “Tempting.”

“More tempting than public manslaughter?”

I sigh. “Barely.”

He reaches for my hand this time, not to disarm me, but to lace our fingers together. He doesn’t squeeze. Just anchors me with the warm, steady weight of his touch.

“They don’t know you,” he says softly. “And I’d wager they’ve never won a bake-off in their lives.”

I smile. “They’re about to choke on their crème brûlée when they see how good I look dancing.”

“Now that’s the spirit.”

The walk is short, but it stretches, like time’s gotten drunk on candlelight and the scent of overwatered roses. Glitterlights from hell loop through the trees like the town was decorated by an overzealous Hallmark intern. A brass band is set up under the gazebo, playing something old and swingy that drips sex and sentiment in equal measure. There’s a crowd, but it parts for us, Edgar in his dark plum vest and predator calm, and me, vibrating like a tuning fork in heels I picked to feel dangerous.

He offers his hand. No preamble. No question. Just that look that says I already know how you taste, I’m just being polite about it.

I take it.

The first step into his arms is a full-body event. His hand at my waist is warm, firm, and respectful in a way that makes me want to bite him. His other hand finds mine, guiding it to his chest like we’ve done this before in a past life, probably right before setting a nobleman on fire.

We move.

He leads like a man born in the wrong century. No awkward foot fumbling or limp side-shuffling, just fluid motion, confident turns, his palm against the curve of my back.

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