Page 4 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

By the time I get home, I’ve got five new maybe-dates waiting in my inbox.

All assuming Derik fails. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t really an if.

It’s a when. Man’s a walking cautionary tale wrapped in Axe body spray and bad decisions.

He’s a meat pinata full of red flags. And that’s sort of the point.

I slide my key into the lock and hesitate.

Did I… accidentally date Edgar? Did I fall mouth-first into a relationship while eating ham?

Because I don’t multi-date. That’s reckless. Sloppy. Emotionally chaotic. These things require focus. I can’t risk taking out a man who might still have a hidden redemption arc buried under a few social flaws and, like, mild necrophilia-adjacent career choices.

But Edgar.

Those eyes. That quiet voice. The way he ordered a sandwich like it was foreplay in a Michelin-star kitchen. I got horny over condiments. What the hell is wrong with me?

He seems like the kind of man who knows aftercare is more than a fist bump and a bottle of Gatorade. The kind who’d say things like, “Did that feel good for you?” and actually mean it.

I kick the door shut and head straight for the kitchen.

No turning on lights. No checking voicemails.

I start yanking ingredients out of cabinets like I’m building an emotional golem out of butter and regret.

I don’t know why I’m making cookies. Some kind of feral domestic instinct, probably.

My uterus panicked and triggered a Betty Crocker defense mechanism.

If I dated him, that means I owe him three more dates before I can make a judgment call. That’s the rule. Three more to prove he’s secretly an emotional vampire or keeps his mom’s teeth in a jar.

But if I didn’t date him, if that sub shop moment was just a random encounter and not, like, the first scene of our meet-cute montage, then I owe him four full dates before he’s eligible for official review.

I roll dough into angry little spheres of sexual confusion and try not to picture his hands.

Big. Gentle. Capable of both postmortem reconstruction and perfect condiment distribution.

That’s range. That’s… hot? My brain’s stuck back at his voice saying things like “Do you have a fruit preserve preference?” and now I’m wondering if that’s code for something filthy or if I’ve just been dating absolute trash for too long.

Goddamnit.

It wasn’t premeditated. There’s no such thing as spontaneous dating, is there?

If I ask him on a date, does that make it public service?

Like jury duty, but with sandwiches and long stares that make my ovaries whisper things?

It’d be a civic duty. Someone’s got to test him for hidden toxicity before he ends up dating some nice girl who doesn’t know the warning signs.

I know the signs. I have spreadsheets. Color-coded ones.

He works with corpses. That’s a red flag, right? Somewhere, buried deep in a graveyard, there’s probably a headstone that reads:

Here Lies One of Edgar’s Red Flags

Beloved by no one.

Died of mysterious silence and too much cologne.

I shove the tray into the oven, and slam the door shut.

The oven ticks. The cookies start to rise. And I just stand there, arms crossed like a woman trying to ward off emotional intimacy with butter and heat.

“I’m fucked,” I whisper to the silence.

Because I might actually like him and I haven’t emotionally imprinted on a man since 2017, and that ended with a Google search for “can you get ghosted by a therapist.”

I’m just placing the last cookie on the cooling rack when the doorbell rings.

I carry the spatula with me. It’s one of the good ones, solid stainless steel with a sharp edge that could double as a defensive weapon if the situation called for it.

I’m not expecting a package. No one texted or called.

Which usually means one of two things: a doomsday cult armed with pamphlets, or a guy trying to sell me solar panels while lying about his name being Brad.

I peer through the peephole.

It’s worse. A cop.

And not just any cop. One of those cops. Tall. Broody. Built like a department-issued wet dream.

He’s standing carved from caution tape and caffeine like he owns the whole damn porch, feet planted, expression unreadable beneath a very official-looking brim.

His uniform’s crisp enough to make a nun blush, badge polished to an existential shine, and when he shifts his weight, his eyes flick toward the door like he knows I’m doing illegal levels of gawking.

Or like he’s waiting for me to confess something just by proximity.

Great. Now I’m being investigated and psychically surveilled.

I open the door a cautious few inches and give him my most neighborly smile, the kind that says I bake cookies, compost responsibly, and definitely didn’t bury anyone this week.

“Good evening, Officer,” I say lightly. “Are you collecting for some kind of fund? I’d offer cash, but all I’ve got is cookie dough and emotional damage.”

His brow lifts, but his face doesn’t soften. “Not exactly. I was hoping to ask a few questions. It’s about a missing person.”

Of course it is.

I glance down at the spatula in my hand and then back up at his face. He’s got a deep, unhurried voice. The kind that suggests he’s used to being listened to. His eyes are dark, serious, not leering, but intense in a way that sends a buzz of heat through my spine. Not ideal.

“Would you like to come in?” I ask, because not inviting him in feels more suspicious, and because I’ve been raised with manners, even if I sometimes kill men. “I just pulled cookies from the oven, and I have fresh milk. Or coffee, if you’re the type who prefers caffeine with your questioning.”

His gaze flicks to the spatula.

“This is just a cookie spatula,” I say, waving it slowly like I’m trying to hypnotize a bear. “Not for stabbing. Unless you’re part of a secret cult or selling NFTs, in which case I’d be reconsidering.”

Something shifts in his face. Not a smile, exactly, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggests he has one, somewhere under all that brooding authority.

“I’ll take coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,” he says. “Officer Carson. And thank you, Miss Lane.”

“Jennifer,” I say, stepping back so he can enter. “But feel free to log me as the suspicious neighborhood cookie witch with a history of poor romantic judgment and excellent snacks.”

He steps inside without comment, and I close the door behind him, aware that my kitchen smells like butter and sugar and poor judgement.

There’s a fresh plate of cookies on the counter, and I have a feeling I’m about to spend the next ten minutes pretending I’m a functioning adult while Officer Broodcore sips coffee and profiles me for murder or worse, heartbreak.

And I can’t tell if the universe is trying to warn me… or set me up.

The coffee’s brewing. My hands are shaking just a little. Not because I’m guilty. Because he has that bow in his upper lip and the voice of a man who says “ma’am” like a threat and I haven’t been emotionally stable since 2016.

I slide the cookie plate toward him, offering a truce, a bribe, and my phone number all in one sugar-dusted gesture. “Snickerdoodle? They’re still warm. So am I. From baking.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

Officer Carson wraps his hands around the coffee mug like it might protect him from a cookie related incident and takes a sip without looking away from me.

His lips wrap around the mug like he’s making love to the ceramic.

I immediately imagine what he could do to a clit.

Mine, specifically. My uterus throws confetti. My dignity throws herself out a window.

He doesn’t touch a cookie. Power move. This is no longer a questioning, it’s foreplay with a steno pad.

He sets the mug down too gently. Like it’s not a mug, but a trap that just snapped shut. “What can you tell me about a man named Gregory Tramble?”

Of course this is about Greg Tramble. That man who leaves Yelp reviews for strip clubs and calls every server “sugar.”

My smile tightens. “Gregory Tramble,” I repeat, rolling it around like gum I forgot was expired. Bitter. Flecked with the taste of regret and mediocre fingering. “God. That’s generous. I usually just called him Greg the Grope. Or Greg the Gaslighter, depending on the day.”

I lean back in my chair and nibble on the edge of a cookie like I’m the picture of innocence and not sitting three feet from a man with a badge and a very intimidating jawline.

“We went on four dates. Which, honestly, was excessive. But I believe in second chances. And sometimes third ones. Fourth was a pity date. I’m a philanthropist like that. ”

Carson nods like he’s heard this kind of insanity before. Probably from criminals who didn’t also offer cookies with it. “So you knew him.”

“I knew of him,” I say, eyes wide with mock sincerity.

“Briefly. Regretfully.” I offer the cookie plate again.

“Seriously, you’re going to want one of these.

They’re to die for. Not that Greg died for them.

That would be weird. Anyway, what’s going on?

Is he the missing person? Because that would explain why he ghosted me before I could ghost him. ”

Carson’s jaw tics. “So you haven’t seen him recently?”

“You’re not a cookie man?” I ask. “That explains the intensity. No serotonin in the bloodstream.”

“I prefer savory,” he says.

Jesus. He says it like he means me.

I bite the cookie in half, chew thoughtfully, and swallow. “Define recently.”

He arches a brow. “The past few weeks?”

“Nope.” I pop the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “Not unless you count the bits of him my rose bush is still feasting on.”

He doesn’t laugh.

Right. Cops don’t like murder jokes during active investigations. That feels like profiling.

I clear my throat. “That was a joke. Obviously. Gardening humor. Very niche.”

Carson flips a page on his little notebook.

His fingers are long. Ink-stained justice weapons.

I bet he peels oranges in one unbroken spiral.

I bet he could make a woman confess everything with two fingers and a softly murmured “I’m listening.

” His pen hovers. “Did Mr. Tramble mention anything that might’ve suggested he planned to leave town? ”

“Oh, sure. He said, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna disappear like your self-esteem after thirty.’” I sip my coffee. “Charming, right?”

“That’s an… unusual thing to say.”

“Greg was an unusual guy,” I say, voice dry.

“He wore socks with flames on them and called himself an alpha. He had a tattoo of a wolf howling at the moon on his thigh. If that man left town, I can assure you it wasn’t to find inner peace.

Probably got eaten by a bear. Or catfished by a hotter alpha and dumped in the woods. Either way, nature’s problem now.”

Carson’s mouth twitches again. His eyes scan my face. “Did he ever mention anyone who might’ve wanted to harm him?”

“Besides everyone who ever met him?” I laugh. “I’m guessing your suspect list is… long.”

He ignores that. “Where were you the night of May 8th?”

Oh. Now we’re really doing this. I sip again. Slow. “At home. Baking. Murdering. Watching Bridgerton. Pick your fantasy.”

Carson doesn’t flinch. Bastard. He really might be immune to me. That makes him even hotter.

He scribbles something. Probably “suspect has cookie-related delusions” or “do not fuck under any circumstances, she offered baked goods and murder vibes.”

I should feel threatened. Instead, I’m wondering what that pen would look like sticking out of his shirt pocket while he pins me to a counter and asks, “Anything else you want to confess, sweetheart?”

“Thanks for your time,” he says, finally. Standing. Big. Broad. All hard edges and calm, dangerous masculinity. “If anything comes to mind, you know how to reach me.”

He pulls a card from his pocket and slides it onto the counter. I glance at it, then him. Then back at the card. His fingers are nice.

“You should take a cookie for the road,” I say. “No one should interrogate on an empty stomach. Especially not that one.” My eyes dip. His abs have probably filed taxes more responsibly than I have.

His mouth curves. It’s not a smile, but something that makes my thighs clench anyway. “Have a good evening, Jennifer.”

“Oh, I plan to,” I say. “Thanks for the visit, Officer. Come by any time. I always have cookies. And I never run out of suspicious behavior.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The cookies are still warm.

So am I.

And now I need to figure out which panties say “innocent” but also “could absolutely bury you and get away with it.”