Page 29 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

She stares at me like I hung the moon. Or at least like I remembered to hang her porch light, which, okay, I also did. Then she says, so quiet it almost slips past me, “I didn’t think I’d ever have this.”

It hits me right in the spot where feelings live. Somewhere between my sternum and my ability to form coherent thoughts. “This… what?” I ask, even though I know.

She shrugs one shoulder. “Someone who cares enough to show up. To help. Not because they want something. Not because they’re angling for control. Just… because.”

I don’t know what to do with all the emotions suddenly crashing around in her eyes. So I do the only thing I can think of. I reach out and wipe the flour off her nose with my thumb.

She catches my wrist mid-motion and holds it there. Her fingers are warm. Her grip’s a little shaky.

“You matter,” I tell her, because it feels like the most important truth I’ve ever known. “You’re not too much or too sharp or too scary. You’re you. And that’s enough. It’s more than enough.”

She leans into my hand, just slightly. Enough that I feel the pressure of her cheek against my palm. “Goddamn it, Blake,” she whispers. “You’re gonna make me cry into the batter.”

“Crying adds depth of flavor,” I tease gently. “Like salted caramel.”

She laughs. Chokes on it. Laughs again.

And I think I’m getting through. Not as the flustered neighbor. Not as backup. But as someone who belongs.

I tuck that laugh away. Save it somewhere stupid and soft, like a kid hoarding shiny rocks. Then I turn to the cakes. They’re perfect.

Golden domes of tender lemon cake, just the right rise, no sinking middles. Glossy swirls of buttercream piped with near-religious precision. Tiny, candied lemon curls perched like crowns. They gleam. They practically hum with triumph.

Jennifer studies them like a war general inspecting her troops. Then, slowly, she peels back a wrapper, lifts one to her mouth, and takes a bite.

Her eyes flutter shut. A muffled, obscene moan escapes her throat. She swallows with visible effort, then drags her teeth across her lower lip like she’s trying to pull herself together and failing.

“They’re lethal,” she says softly. Like a confession. “Absolutely criminal. I want to fuck this cupcake.”

I forget my name, the year, and how to stand upright. “So… we’re still talking about the cupcakes, right?”

Her laugh bubbles out of her, warm and loose and beautiful. She swats at my arm with the back of her hand, icing still clinging to her fingertips. “You wish, Baker Boy.”

God help me, I really do.

Then there’s a new softness in her expression, something heavy and sweet behind the usual smirk. Her eyes flick to my mouth. And without another word, she leans in and kisses me. It’s not the kind of kiss that makes people grab counters and knock over bowls.

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.