Page 84 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

SOMEPLACE TO BE

Maggie

All I could think about was getting into that damn safety deposit box before Portia.

But banks didn’t open on Sundays, so I was stuck waiting.

Trapped between Derek’s awkward glances at the photo of my ass—now pinned dead center on the crime board, like a weirdly personal mugshot—and a flurry of Google searches I never imagined typing.

Sigils, soul seals, cursed anatomical drawings…

Welcome to just another Sunday at Blackbriar Manor.

I needed something—anything—normal. So, the second Graham left last night, I baked.

Now the manor smelled like heaven cracked open.

Buttery crust, with warm cinnamon and apples that melted in your mouth.

The kind of pie you imagine in an old diner ad—lattice top, sugar dusted, still steaming.

It’d been torture holding back, but I wanted to give it to Graham.

He deserved something good. After everything—protecting me, his suspension, keeping me grounded—he earned more than just stab wounds and grief.

And not that a pie could make up for everything, but this was a pretty fucking good pie.

I may have baked a little magic into the crust—just a touch.

Not a full spell, just a nudge. Something warm and quiet to give him the confidence to stand up to Nettles when the time came.

Or maybe just enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

That what he was doing mattered . That I saw it.

It wasn’t his fault his boss kept pulling the leash every time he got too close to a real lead.

It was 6:30 A.M. now, and I was parked on the front porch, anxiously awaiting his arrival.

Uncle Silas told me about an old stained-glass patio set stashed in the garage.

Katie helped me drag it out and scrub it clean, and honestly, it was kind of charming now—sunlight hit the glass just right, casting little rainbows across the steps.

Figured it was as good of a place as any to serve up a slice of pie and an accidental pep talk.

Last night felt strange without him.

He said he needed to catch up on a few things at home, get some clean clothes. I didn’t pry. Maybe I should have. He had been with me nearly every hour lately—my personal bodyguard, occasional calendar model, fuck buddy—and the absence echoed louder than I’d expected.

Katie and Derek stuck around until midnight, pulling up articles, cross-checking names, making jokes they thought I didn’t catch. “Protecting me,” they said. But my mind was somewhere else.

On a man I missed more than I should have.

Uncle Silas was there too, and boy, he had certainly changed his tune.

He spent the entire evening fretting in the attic, ranting about Portia—going over every possible reason she could’ve gotten involved with Rocky Sorrentino.

Why her portrait was in Belvedere’s journal.

How she could’ve betrayed him over all those years.

Graham’s suggestion that she’d become a shark tamer was his favorite theory. Apparently, it was the only explanation he was willing to accept—especially considering the way she flocked to money. Uncle Silas called it her “entrepreneurial spirit.” I called it greed .

The low purr of Graham’s truck drifted down Primrose Avenue and curled up the driveway. It was funny how fast your brain associated a sound with a person—and how, when that sound hit your ears, it stirred something inside.

Right now? It was butterflies. A whole damn army of them.

Because he was here. And I was still wondering if he was ever going to kiss me. Like really kiss me. Not this tender forehead stuff. Not the “cupcake” nicknames or the lingering glances. A real kiss. The kind I was waiting for.

Maybe he just wasn’t a kisser. Maybe he worried about cooties?

…No, that’d be ridiculous. If he were worried about cooties, he wouldn’t be half as promiscuous as the rumors—and, well, our history—suggested. Right?

“What is that heavenly sight I see before me?” Graham asked, two to-go cups in hand as he scaled the porch steps two at a time.

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” I teased, playfully teetering myself in my chair, even though I knew damn well he was talking about the pie. “Golden Harvest. My famous fall recipe. The customers back home used to go crazy for it. I made it last night after you left—as a thank you. For everything.”

My cheeks warmed as my eyes flicked to his rolled-up flannel sleeves. His forearms were on full display, golden skin under those mystic tattoos, roped with muscle, dusted in just enough hair to tempt a naughty thought or two. I wanted to bite him. You know. For science.

He dropped into the seat beside me and slid one of the coffees across the table. “Let me know if I did good,” he said, voice low and warm. His eyes caught the morning light—deep navy, sharp and bright like glistening sapphires. Damn it.

I took a sip. “Mmm… this’ll go perfectly with the pie.”

“I don’t know how the hell you drink that stuff,” he muttered, eyeing my cup like it might bite.

“I told the barista to make it sweet enough to piss off your dentist. Pretty sure she took that as a personal challenge, because there’s five sugars, two pumps of caramel, and a mountain of whipped cream. I think she forgot the actual coffee.”

He popped the lid off his own and gave it a little blow. He was cute before he had his coffee. I took a sip.

“It’s perfect. Just the way I like it. Thank you.”

I cut him the first slice of pie, the crust cracking with a perfect sugar-glazed crunch. I’ve baked this pie a thousand times, but somehow this one hit differently. I was even impressed.

Graham took a bite and froze mid-chew. “Holy fuck, Max. That’s the best damn pie I’ve ever tasted—and I don’t hand out pie praise lightly. I know pie.”

He waved his fork over the pie like it was sacred. “What the hell did you put in this? Some kind of pastry witchcraft?” Then, shoveled in another bite. At this rate, the whole damn thing was going to be gone and dish licked clean before I could even plate mine.

“It’s probably the spiced bourbon—and the hand-grated nutmeg. I don’t half-ass flavor.” I smiled as I finally cut into my slice.

“Alcohol and pie?” He groaned, scraping up the last of the filling. “My two favorite things. Throw in a naked lady and it’s officially the best day of my life.”

“Well,” I said, licking a bit of filling from my fork, “I’m sure we could arrange that... after the bank.”

“Temptress,” he muttered, piling another slice on his plate and wolfing it down between sips of coffee.

“Before this turns into a full-blown porno with pie, where’s my little buddy?”

“Chester?” I asked, bringing a napkin to my mouth, “He’s at Katie’s. She figured he’d enjoy a playdate with Tophie.”

“You sure Tophie’s the kind of girl we want our Chester spending the night with?”

Our?

Since when did Chester become a joint-custody situation?

“Well, she’s fixed—and a mom—so I figured it was fine?” I felt my face unintentionally twist into a confused expression. “Katie’s there, and Chester hasn’t even hit puberty yet, so—,” I squinted at him. Was he being serious right now?

“Whoa—hard stop. I am not discussing our son’s sexual development over breakfast. That convo needs a bottle of whiskey and zero pie.”

“Our son? When did that happen?” I asked, trying not to snort.

“He’s grown attached—and I might’ve become a little fond of him too. I’m just saying, I’m open to co-parenting. Joint custody. Full visitation rights.”

I blinked. Was this foreplay? Were we… roleplaying domesticity now?

“Did you hit your head? Are you okay? You do realize you’re talking about my cat, right?”

I set my fork down, stood, and leaned in until we were close, nose-to-nose, squinting into his eyes like I was checking for a concussion.

“Would you knock it off?” He waved me away like a fly and dove back into his pie like I didn’t just accuse him of brain damage.

“I’m just screwing with you,” he said, eyes fluttering closed as he savored another bite. “But that little guy is my favorite cat. He’s got solid instincts about people. No bullshit.”

He wasn’t wrong—Chester absolutely adored him. Every time Graham showed up, the little twerp ghosted me and acted like Graham’s presence was the second coming of the feline messiah.

But how could we have a “ son” if Graham hasn’t even kissed me yet? Are we a thing? Was this a slow burn movie or a glitch in the simulation? Because I was officially fucking losing it.

“Well, that slice of heaven was divine—but we should get moving.” He stacked both plates in one hand, pie in the other. “Grab the door for me, would ya?”

Still reeling, I trailed him to the kitchen and leaned against the half wall, watching him rinse the dishes like it was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

Ridiculous, I know—getting turned on by a man washing a plate—but those forearms? My god. The way they flexed with every swipe of that soapy sponge. I was a goner.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Maggie,” Uncle Silas huffed, popping in between us. “Must you objectify the poor lad every time he moves a muscle?”

“Shit!” I jumped back, clutching my chest. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Good. At least now there’s something other than lust running through your bloodstream.”

“Ha. Ha.” I deadpan. “You’re hilarious.”

“She can look all she wants, old boy.” Graham dried his hands on a towel and sauntered right through Uncle Silas—deliberately smacking my ass on the way.

“Oooh!” I yelped.

“I say!” Uncle Silas huffed. “Such tawdry affection! The youth today have no grasp of proper courting. None!”

“Nah, we just know how to have fun—right, Max?” Graham slid in behind me, arms looping snug around my waist.

“Uh-huh,” I murmured, still reeling from this playful side of him. God, he made my knees useless and my ovaries painfully aware of their job. I probably looked like a loon—drooling, speechless, and one wrong touch away from climbing him like a tree.

“Let’s get a move on it, babe.”