Page 81 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

It’s worse. Better. It’s tender.

Her lips are sugar-slick and warm. Her hand finds my wrist and holds it lightly, like I’m something precious, like she’s afraid if she grips too hard I’ll shatter.

I kiss her back, trying not to breathe too loud or want too much. I taste lemon. And butter. And her.

She pulls away only an inch, eyes still closed. “I think we’re gonna win,” she whispers.

“I already did,” I say back.

We stand in the kitchen, two sticky, floured-up disasters with sugar under our nails and hope in our teeth, and I think this is what peace tastes like.

Sweet. Sharp. And absolutely worth the mess.

A few minutes later, the cupcakes are boxed. The kisses have left frosting smudges in places that’ll haunt me for weeks. And the kitchen is a war zone of powdered sugar and emotional intimacy.

Jennifer’s humming under her breath as she packs up the last of the samples, sliding them into cute little bakery boxes like a woman who definitely wouldn’t stab a judge over a texture scoring discrepancy.

I’m elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing mixing bowls with the efficiency of a man who knows how rare it is to be trusted in her space. Her kitchen. Her world. And yeah, okay, it makes me stupidly happy.

The murder’s still there. Somewhere. In the background. Like a theme song with a sharp edge. But today is lemon zest and music and her bare shoulder brushing mine when she reaches for the food scale. It’s good. We’re good.

My phone buzzes on the counter. I dry my hands and check it.

Edgar: Hearse is gassed. Let me know if the fair becomes a bloodbath.

I huff a laugh.

Two seconds later, Carson’s message pops up. It’s a thumbs up and a peach emoji.

Jennifer snorts from across the counter. “He’s so subtle.”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning like a fool. “Weirdly proud of the guy.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she gives me this little look, soft, corner-of-her-eye, all crinkled-lids and lowkey affection.

I rinse the last spatula and set it to dry. The kitchen’s still cluttered, but it’s cleaner than it was. It feels like we did something. Like I mattered. Not just in the “pass me the flour” kind of way, but in the “I want you in my orbit when the world turns sideways” kind of way.

She slips a cupcake into a tiny sample box labeled “For bribery only.”

“For Cookie?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron.

“She keeps telling people my lemon bars are too tart. Like me. Tart, Blake.”

“She’s a dead woman,” I say.

“That’s the spirit.” She kisses my cheek, light, casual, no ceremony, and I swear I feel it all the way down to my toes.

I might not be the sharpest knife in her drawer. I might not know what to do with a bone saw or a badge or a secret file of judge weaknesses. But I know how to calm her when her breathing goes tight. I know how to clean a kitchen without being asked. And tomorrow, I’ll know how to smile sweetly at Cookie while mentally daring her to say one more thing about lemon frosting texture.

We’re gonna win this damn fair. And no one’s gonna die.

Unless they really deserve it.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jennifer

I have definitely achieved enlightenment. I am one with the powdered sugar gods. I am not checking the judging tent for the seventh, no, eighth, time in the last ten minutes. That would be unhinged behavior. That would be the behavior of a woman who has emotionally invested herself so deeply in a lemon cupcake that her entire sense of self-worth now rests on its tart, buttercream-frosted little shoulders.

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