Page 3 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

Since Derik didn’t feed me, not that I would have eaten anything in that bar-bathroom cosplay, I’m now starving in line at a sandwich joint that looks like it was designed by Instagram influencers and funded by money laundering.

The bread smells like ambition, but I guarantee it tastes like regret and gluten. My stomach’s throwing a fit louder than a toddler who just had their iPad pried from their tiny, tyrant hands mid-Cocomelon binge.

And this guy, tall, black hair slicked back like he’s auditioning for a gritty noir reboot, eyes sharp enough to perform LASIK, is treating his sandwich order like it’s a high-stakes hostage negotiation.

I’m watching him like he’s the villain in one of those true crime docuseries I binge, trying to spot the asshole tells before it’s too late. Nothing so far except he’s a total sandwich diva.

“Okay, so,” he starts, voice smooth like bourbon, “I want the everything bread, but only if you’re back to using the sesame seed batch. If not, I’ll have the Italian herb bread, but not if you’ve overcooked it like last week.”

Overcooked bread? What, is this the Great British Sandwich-Off? Just slap some meat between carbs and let the people eat.

He leans in, eyes scanning the menu like it’s a crime scene. “Also, no roasted peppers unless they’re the fire-roasted ones, not the sweet variety. And can you check if the provolone’s aged at least three months?”

My stomach growls again, threatening violence. I glance at my phone about to DoorDash revenge.

By the time he’s finished, I’m halfway through a mental checklist:

Does he talk like a dick? No. Picky, but not rude.

Is he wearing typical asshole attire? No. He’s dressed nice. A suit at lunch in a sub shop.

Is he holding up the line like a goddamn sandwich Sommelier? Absolutely.

I’m this close to just snapping, “Hey, Frankenstein, can you make your deathly serious sandwich and move it along?”

When he turns toward me, he offers an apologetic smile.

I forget how to smile back, because it’s not lewd. His eyes stay on mine. Respectful. Like he’s a monk or something.

He moves aside to wait for his artisanal monstrosity, leaving behind a sexy, vanilla-scented vacuum like a Calvin Klein ad ghosted me.

I step up, still reeling, trying to remember how to speak like a functioning adult and not a feral divorcee hypnotized by sandwich pheromones.

“What can I get you?” the guy behind the register asks. He looks aggressively average compared to the raven-haired sub whisperer.

“Specials?” I say, sounding like someone who just got hit in the head with a baguette.

“You don’t want that,” Raven says. “May I suggest?”

“Sure,” I say, openly staring now. I’m the pervert. I’ve joined the dark side and it smells like fresh bread and cologne. “I like regular food. White bread. Ham and cheese. Meatball, maybe.” I sound like a virgin at a wine tasting. Someone take my mouth license away.

He smiles, and his eyes go full sapphire-mode. Like, DND magical item level glow. My nipples file a formal request for attention. Thank God for t-shirt bras. I stuff my hands in my pockets and try not to drool on the tile.

“Let’s aim for ordinary,” he says, “but with taste.” Like he’s designing a sandwich and seducing me in the same breath.

Then he locks eyes with the sandwich guy like they’re about to duel. “Hawaiian bread,” he begins, “but only if you’ve made it fresh today. Otherwise, a classic sub roll. Black Forest ham and Havarti, but only if you’ve got the fresh Hawaiian. If not…”

“We have Hawaiian,” the guy cuts in.

“Lovely. Give her a side of cranberry sauce. Not jellied. Please serve it in a saucer so it doesn’t get juice on the bread beforehand.” He turns to me, one brow lifted. “Forgive me,” he says, dead serious, “but do you have a fruit preserve preference?”

Who asks that? Who means that? Who sounds sensual while saying it?

“I… don’t think so?” I gesture with both hands in the ancient feminine rite of no thoughts, only vibes. “I like cranberry sauce.”

Because I don’t know what fruit preserves go with ham and cheese. I usually use mayo like a raccoon in a 7-Eleven dumpster.

“Perfect. And do you like condiments? Perhaps served on the side so you can have a different experience in every bite?”

It’s just lunch.

“Please, yes,” I say, turning to the guy behind the counter. “A side of mayo and mustard.”

Raven tilts his head. “Real mayo, and give her the new honey mustard too. On the side. Obviously.”

What is this? Why is this suggestive?

When we step aside to wait, I’m still scanning him for flaws. He did take over my sandwich order, but it wasn’t that alpha-control crap. It was… considerate. Like he genuinely wanted me to enjoy my sandwich and not, you know, suffer in silence with food regret and trust issues.

“Thanks for the sandwich save and the unsolicited flavor orgasm,” I say. “I’m Jennifer.”

“Edgar,” he replies, smiling like a man who knows exactly how much to charm without triggering my fight-or-murder reflex.

“And I’m sorry I hijacked your lunch order like a deranged Gordon Ramsay.

It’s just this place has the best if you know what to ask for.

And they’ll serve you cardboard at the same price if you don’t.

” He watches them build our sandwiches with almost reverent focus.

It feels… dangerously close to a date.

And if it is? It’s already blowing Derik’s greasy little Buffalo sauce ghost out of the water.

They call our names, his first, then mine, and he gestures toward the tiny table shoved against the window like it’s some kind of VIP section.

“Want to eat here?” he asks, already halfway sitting. “I promise not to critique your chewing.”

It’s already the best date of my week and no one’s even cried yet. “Sure,” I say sweetly. “But if you start scoring my bites like it’s the Olympics, I will stab you. This fork is compostable, not harmless.”

He grins like I just flirted. I might have. Jury’s out.

I unwrap the sandwich, and I swear to god, it glows. The bread is still warm. The ham is layered like it was folded by a Michelin-star origamist. The cranberry sauce looks like something Martha Stewart wept over. There’s even a tiny sprig of rosemary on the plate.

“What in the elevated charcuterie hell,” I whisper. “This is food porn. This is edible foreplay.”

He leans in like he’s delivering state secrets. “Bite it now. You want the bread warm enough to melt into the cheese. It’s a window.”

I do as instructed. And I moan. Actually moan. Like “deleted scene from a romance novel” moan.

A PTA-looking woman two tables over clutches her pearls. I don’t care. My mouth is full of salt and sweet and melty magic.

“Holy shit,” I manage, once I remember how to breathe. “I’ve eaten trash all my life.”

He chuckles. “Sandwiches are my love language. Food in general.”

“That explains the seduction,” I say. Then catch myself. “I mean. Not seduction-seduction. Just… you know. Palate seduction.”

“I’ll take it.” He picks up his own sandwich, a chaotic stack of salami, sprouts, and goat cheese, and bites it like he’s savoring every second. “You looked like you needed a food win.”

I narrow my eyes. “What gave it away?”

He wipes his mouth delicately. “You were standing behind me like a woman who might commit a hate crime if denied ham.”

“… fair.”

We eat in companionable silence for a few glorious bites. Then I wipe cranberry from my lip and say, “So. Edgar. What do you do when you’re not rescuing women from sub-par sandwiches?”

He swallows, then smiles that low-key smile again. The kind that says “this might be a little weird” but also “I’m not ashamed.”

“I’m a mortician.”

I pause, unsure if I heard him right. A slow grin spreads across my face as the words register. “That’s amazing.”

His brow lifts, wary. “Most people get uncomfortable.”

“Not me. I love a man who understands body disposal.”

He goes still, gaze locked on mine like I just upped the stakes. “That’s… not a common response.”

“I’m not a common girl,” I say, taking another bite. “Besides, if I ever have to bury an ex in the woods, I feel like you’d give great tips.”

He laughs, loud and startled, like I surprised him. Which is impressive, given the man works with corpses.

“I mean,” I add casually, “not that I’d do that. Obviously. That would be wrong.”

“Obviously,” he echoes, still smiling. “But,” he adds casually, “if you ever needed to hypothetically disappear someone, I know a guy who knows a backhoe.”

I raise my sandwich like a toast. “To hypothetical friendships with very useful men.”

He taps his sub against mine. “To the women who make them necessary.”

We fall into this rhythm, bite, banter, sip of fancy citrus water he somehow also got comped for us. He’s funny in that dry, observant way, like a man who’s seen some shit but still has the decency to be charmed by sandwich-based small talk. I keep waiting for the catch.

There’s always a catch.

But he doesn’t interrupt me. He doesn’t say anything sexist or weirdly intense about his ex. He doesn’t even look at my chest unless I’m already speaking, and then it’s just a quick flick before he locks back on my face like a goddamn gentleman.

Which means I spend the whole meal wondering what the fuck is wrong with him.

He laughs at the right parts of my story about last week’s date, the one who told me women who eat bread “lack self-discipline.” And when I say, “So I ordered a second basket,” Edgar smiles like I just punched a misogynist in the dick with a dinner roll.

He’s warm, but calm. Present. And tall. And his hair does this little flop over his brow like he’s in a gothic romance cover shoot and no one told him he’s the love interest.

I chew my last bite slower than necessary, stalling. Searching for any excuse to keep him sitting across from me. Even a red flag would do. Something to tell me he’s a narcissist or emotionally unavailable or secretly thinks kombucha is a personality.

Instead, he just watches me like I’m the most interesting thing in the room, then dabs his mouth with a napkin like he was raised in a manor, not a morgue.

“This was… unexpectedly fun,” I say, licking cranberry from my thumb.

“Agreed. I don’t usually pick up women in sub shops, but I might start.”

Oh no. There it is again. That gentleman villain smile. Like he knows five ways to disarm a bomb and all of them involve a wink.

“Careful,” I say. “You’ll ruin the mystery of being a mortician if you start flirting like a regular human.”

“I’m not flirting,” he says. “I’m networking. For future business.”

I snort.

Then, smooth as a fucking Bond villain, he reaches into his wallet and slides a black embossed business card across the table.

EDGAR TEMPLETON

Funeral Director, Restoration Specialist

Templeton & Sons — Family-Owned Since 1897

“In case you need a sandwich soulmate,” he says smoothly, “or a discreet corpse consultant.”

I stare at it for a second. Then up at him. “I don’t have a card.”

His brows lift. “No mysterious profession to print one for?”

“I work from home.”

That earns a slow, intrigued smile. “Remote assassin? Etsy witch?”

“Freelance consultant,” I say quickly. Which is technically true. I consult the internet for which jerks deserve a taste of justice.

“Well,” he says, rising from the table like an actual gentleman, “if you ever feel like consulting a mortician about sandwiches or anything else, you’ve got my number.”

I tuck the card into my purse. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He leaves first, with a nod and a thank-you to the guy behind the counter. I watch him go, pulse doing strange things for a man who just discussed corpse storage between bites of ham.

No red flags. No gut instinct screaming danger.

I just pseudo-dated a sandwich necromancer who moonlights with corpses, and I think I want seconds.