Some girls bake cookies to cope with trauma. I bury men in my garden.
Not all men, obviously. Just the ones who call me “curvy” like it’s charity work, ghost after sex, or think gaslighting counts as foreplay.
I give them four dates. That’s generous, considering how many end up under the begonias.
Lately, I’ve been doing a lot more digging than dating. The garden’s full, my shovel’s tired, and the ghosts of shitty men are haunting my heirloom tomatoes.
Then Blake shows up, all golden retriever energy and accidental...
Three men. One bone saw. Zero regrets.
Romance is messy. That’s why I line the trunk.
Some girls bake cookies to cope with trauma. I bury men in my garden.
Not all men, obviously. Just the ones who call me “curvy” like it’s charity work, ghost after sex, or think gaslighting counts as foreplay.
I give them four dates. That’s generous, considering how many end up under the begonias.
Lately, I’ve been doing a lot more digging than dating. The garden’s full, my shovel’s tired, and the ghosts of shitty men are haunting my heirloom tomatoes.
Then Blake shows up, all golden retriever energy and accidental shovel offers. He might be dumb. Or dangerous. Or both.
And there’s Edgar, a disturbingly hot mortician with gourmet sandwiches, quiet trauma, and the tools to help bodies disappear.
Let’s not forget Officer Carson, broody, beefy, and maybe obsessed. He keeps asking questions about my ex. The one who vanished. The one who deserved it.
Oh, and there’s Walter. We don’t talk about Walter. Yet.
Now my love life’s overflowing, my garden’s full of secrets, and I’m almost out of yard space. But I’ve got a system. I’ve got snacks. And I’ve got a bone saw in the trunk, courtesy of a hot undertaker with questionable morals and excellent taste in bread.
This might end in love. Or bloodshed.
Either way, I’m bringing dessert.
I bake. I kill. I compost.
Try me.
A deliciously unhinged reverse harem romantic comedy full of bite, bodies, banter, and bloodshed. (They all deserved it.)
