Page 82 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Which I have not done.

Obviously.

I just happen to be standing in a perfect line of sight from the judging pavilion. Casually. Like someone who appreciates… tents. Fabric architecture. And the possibility of mortal combat if Cookie’s poison-laced lemon blondies even look like they’re getting positive feedback.

“Jen,” Blake says gently, offering me a funnel cake like it’s a sacred peace offering. “You’re doing the thing with your eye again.”

“What thing?”

“The one where it twitches like you’re planning crimes with your thoughts.”

“I am planning crimes with my thoughts,” I say, snatching the funnel cake and nearly inhaling a whole sugar-coated corner. “But they’re very low-effort crimes. Just… arson. Maybe a light stabbing. Nothing dramatic.”

Carson, who has not stopped wearing aviators since we parked, glances sidelong at me like he’s checking for concealedweapons. Joke’s on him. I left them all in my purse. Along with lip gloss, gum, and the knowledge that my cupcakes are perfect.

Edgar murmurs something approving about the scent profile of the food stalls, as if we’re not at a county fair where one can purchase a deep-fried Oreo the size of a toddler. His tie is neatly pinned, his shirt crisp, like this is the dessert version of a military op.

Which… I guess it kind of is.

I exhale slowly through my nose. The kind of breath you take before assassinating a pastry tyrant.

“I’m fine,” I lie, hands clenched in the pockets of my sundress so I don’t march over to the judges and demand they publicly affirm my dominance in citrus-forward baking.

Blake’s hand brushes mine like my emotional state is encoded in my body language and he’s just been… studying the code.

“We’re proud of you,” he says softly. “You already won. No matter what happens.”

I want to kiss him and scream into his chest at the same time. I settle for nodding once, very regally, like a woman completely and totally unbothered.

Then I check the judging tent again.

Just once. Okay, maybe twice. Okay, maybe I am vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

But you know what? I baked a cupcake that could kill a god. And if it doesn’t win, I’m fully prepared to turn this wholesome family event into a crime scene with excellent lighting and a faint scent of lemon.

My men manage to distract me. It starts with a stuffed rooster. Not just any stuffed rooster. No. This thing is ten pounds of offensively bright feathers, bugged-out googly eyes, and the faint aura of desperation that clings to all rigged carnival prizes. It’s hideous and perfect.

Blake wins it for me on his third try at a game I’m ninety-percent sure is a front for laundering dirty funnel cake money. He blushes all the way down to his collarbone as he hands it over, cheeks pink and triumphant like he just returned from war instead of beaning some plastic milk bottles with a weighted softball.

“I, uh, know you like birds,” he says, voice cracking on the word birds like I’m going to rip off his clothes and mount him on the Tilt-A-Whirl for such gallantry. Honestly? Not off the table.

Behind us, Carson makes a noise that can only be described as a cop’s chuckle, which is to say it’s 87% judgment and 13% veiled horniness.

“Trying to give her your cock in public?” he says, completely straight-faced.

I cradle the rooster to my chest like it’s a newborn. “Finally,” I sigh, “a man who knows his role. Stuffed and silent.”

Blake nearly drops the rest of his tickets.

Carson smirks, sunglasses permanently glued to his face, somehow radiating judgmental lust despite being the one holding my purse like it contains state secrets. He’s posted up next to a deep-fried butter sign, arms crossed like he’s guarding the nuclear codes and not my emergency lipstick and tampons.

And then there’s Edgar.

He returns from the snack stalls like a fairy tale villain, looking immaculate despite the sweat, the crowds, and the air being 80% grease vapor. “I’ve secured more sustenance,” he announces, handing me a paper tray with ceremony.

The funnel cake is still sizzling.

“I requested it fresh,” he says. “Powdered sugar on the side, no cinnamon contamination. We’re cleansing palates today. The corn dogs have mustard and ketchup on the side.”

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