Page 8 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“Careful,” I say. “You’ll ruin the mystery of being a mortician if you start flirting like a regular human.”

“I’m not flirting,” he says. “I’m networking. For future business.”

I snort.

Then, smooth as a fucking Bond villain, he reaches into his wallet and slides a black embossed business card across the table.

EDGAR TEMPLETON

Funeral Director, Restoration Specialist

Templeton & Sons — Family-Owned Since 1897

“In case you need a sandwich soulmate,” he says smoothly, “or a discreet corpse consultant.”

I stare at it for a second. Then up at him. “I don’t have a card.”

His brows lift. “No mysterious profession to print one for?”

“I work from home.”

That earns a slow, intrigued smile. “Remote assassin? Etsy witch?”

“Freelance consultant,” I say quickly. Which is technically true. I consult the internet for which jerks deserve a taste of justice.

“Well,” he says, rising from the table like an actual gentleman, “if you ever feel like consulting a mortician about sandwiches or anything else, you’ve got my number.”

I tuck the card into my purse. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He leaves first, with a nod and a thank-you to the guy behind the counter. I watch him go, pulse doing strange things for a man who just discussed corpse storage between bites of ham.

No red flags. No gut instinct screaming danger.

I just pseudo-dated a sandwich necromancer who moonlights with corpses, and I think I want seconds.

Chapter Four

Jennifer

By the time I get home, I’ve got five new maybe-dates waiting in my inbox. All assuming Derik fails. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t really an if. It’s a when. Man’s a walking cautionary tale wrapped in Axe body spray and bad decisions. He’s a meat piñata full of red flags. And that’s sort of the point.

I slide my key into the lock and hesitate.

Did I… accidentally date Edgar? Did I fall mouth-first into a relationship while eating ham?

Because I don’t multi-date. That’s reckless. Sloppy. Emotionally chaotic. These things require focus. I can’t risk taking out a man who might still have a hidden redemption arc buried under a few social flaws and, like, mild necrophilia-adjacent career choices.

But Edgar.

Those eyes. That quiet voice. The way he ordered a sandwich like it was foreplay in a Michelin-star kitchen. I got horny over condiments. What the hell is wrong with me?

He seems like the kind of man who knows aftercare is more than a fist bump and a bottle of Gatorade. The kind who’d say things like, “Did that feel good for you?” and actually mean it.

I kick the door shut and head straight for the kitchen. No turning on lights. No checking voicemails. I start yanking ingredients out of cabinets like I’m building an emotional golem out of butter and regret. I don’t know why I’m making cookies. Some kind of feral domestic instinct, probably. My uterus panicked and triggered a Betty Crocker defense mechanism.

If I dated him, that means I owe him three more dates before I can make a judgment call. That’s the rule. Three more to prove he’s secretly an emotional vampire or keeps his mom’s teeth in a jar.

But if I didn’t date him, if that sub shop moment was just a random encounter and not, like, the first scene of our meet-cute montage, then I owe him four full dates before he’s eligible for official review.

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