Page 8 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

Things always look a little better with a properly cream-cheesed bagel.

Not that life’s good, exactly, just less terrible when I’m gnawing on something carb-based and smeared with a dairy product thick enough to double as spackle.

The bagel crunches, the smear oozes, and for one sacred, holy-cheesed minute, I’m not thinking about dead men, well-endowed neighbors, or how long it’s been since I came without assistance from AA batteries and poor decisions.

I lick a glob of cheese off my thumb and stare at my phone.

Blake.

Fucking Blake. Hot, thoughtful, infuriating Blake with those forearms that scream pin me down and say please and that stupid perfect smile that demolishes my survival instincts.

I shouldn’t want him. He’s not part of the plan. But plans buckle under the weight of tight jeans and that goddamn laugh.

I want to ride him like the apocalypse is scheduled for Tuesday and I’m behind on orgasms.

Not smart. Might help. Might reset my brain chemistry. Might also end in me accidentally catching feelings, which is significantly more dangerous than catching a body.

Four dates, I remind myself. Blake’s on date… what? One and a half? Two if you count over the fence flirtation. Which I might.

I sigh. Bite. Chew.

Then there’s Edgar.

My little goth mortician. All sandwich-based seduction and razor-precise usefulness.

He fascinates me, like if funeral homes came with a “do me against the embalming table” loyalty program.

I want to see what he’s like in his natural habitat.

Whether he winces when I ask about cremating…

pets. Lots of pets. Definitely not men. Not unless he asks the right questions.

It’s about establishing a working relationship. Practicality. Logistics. Getting a feel for his comfort zone. And maybe cleaning out a few stray skeletons before Carson starts sniffing too close to the petunias.

Carson.

I’ll deal with him soon. Maybe after orgasms. Or arson. Or both.

After another bite, I open my phone and stare at my dating app. The icon pulses like an infected wound. I tap it. Pause. Then delete it with a flick of my thumb.

I don’t need it anymore. I can find what I need without apps, without small talk, without pretending to care about their favorite podcast. These men aren’t cryptids. They’re not even hiding. The world is full of assholes just waiting to show their teeth.

I’ve got a full tank of gas, a garden full of secrets, and a to-do list that smells like cookies and gunpowder.

Time to pay Edgar a visit.

Fun thing about small towns? They all have a bakery, and it’s always run by a woman who fled the city after a messy divorce or a scandal involving PTO embezzlement, came home for Christmas, boned her high school ex during a snowstorm, and never left.

Now she bakes sourdough with alarming eye contact and moonlights as the town’s sugar-coated matchmaker and head gossip.

Which works out for me today. The bell over the door gives a polite little chime as I step inside.

“Morning!” chirps the woman behind the counter.

Cookie. Yes, really. Cookie. Small town bakery owners always have names that sound like stripper aliases or kindergarten nicknames, and I can’t decide which is scarier.

She’s got that smile like she’s one therapy session away from frosting her husband into a shallow grave. “What can I get you?”

“I’d like a mid-morning snack for the kind of person who might order a cherry cheese Danish…

with the cherries on the side. In a separate dish.

” And maybe a side of railing me against a cold metal gurney, but that’s probably not on the menu.

There’s a specific kind of person who needs that level of dessert discretion.

A man who handles bodies for a living and still thinks warmed fruit is offensive.

Cookie’s smile tightens like I just spit lemon juice into her gums. “Oh. Edgar, you mean?”

I shrug. “Maybe.” As if half this nosy little zip code won’t see me pull into the funeral home and immediately bring it up at the next town meeting like it’s a zoning concern.

“He won’t want a Danish. Those were made last night.” She says this like I’m a complete disappointment. “He’ll want a raspberry crumble. It’s fresh. I’ll put the icing on the side. Heated. You’ll want to get it to him within the hour or he’ll hate it.”

“Can you make me one too? Apple,” I say, feeling reckless.

“Icing on the side?” she asks.

“Sure. Why not.” I squint at her. “Is that what he would want?”

Cookie snorts like I’ve insulted her baking skills. “He wouldn’t want apple.”

“Fine. An éclair?”

Now she sighs like I just asked her to hand-frost each éclair while reciting her divorce decree. Which is fair. Small-town women are powered by petty vengeance and lemon zest. “I have a few that still need icing. I’ll put your chocolate on the side.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Put my chocolate on the side. Just like my feelings, sticky and best avoided.”

A short drive later and armed with pastries, I stroll into the funeral home like it’s a date and not an interview for an accomplice.

Is this a date? It involves sharing food again, so it’s at least date-adjacent. That makes two. I bet he shows a red flag today.

He walks out looking like leading-to-sex music should be playing. The man works with corpses and still manages to look like he gets eight hours of sleep and gives devastating oral.

When he sees me, there’s almost a smile, quick and shy, but his eyes give him away. He’s glad I’m here. “Business, or...?” he says as he crosses to me. He smells like sandalwood, vanilla, secrets, and a man who owns more than one black turtleneck.

I want to bite him just to see if he bruises pretty and purrs when touched. I don’t. That’s date five behavior, or a felony, depending on the angle.

“Both,” I say, holding up the paper bag. “I brought you raspberry crumble. Icing on the side.” I lower my voice and try for seductive. I hit somewhere closer to lukewarm deranged. “It’s hot. And there’s a window.”

Now he really smiles, but it’s not playful. It makes my ovaries file a complaint with the department of Why Are We Not Being Pinned Against the Wall.

He leads me into a small kitchen with breakroom vibes and a little eat-in table. We sit.

I slide over his crumble and unwrap my éclair. I slice off a bit and dip it into the side of chocolate like this is how I always eat them. We both know it’s a lie. I’d normally just bite in, all frosting and filling and lip-smearing carnage.

He takes his first bite, closes his eyes, and makes a sound that speaks directly to my g-spot in tongues.

I wonder if he makes that sound when he comes.

If it’s deeper. Or rougher. If he growls or purrs when he finishes or maybe both.

My thighs clench under the table, which feels rude considering we’re sitting across from a literal cremator.

But then again, he did bring the moan noises first.

“What brings you here?” he asks, like he didn’t just drop a sex noise into the middle of a Wednesday morning.

I figure it’s best to strike while he’s still got ecstasy on his taste buds and before my legs forget how to function. “So hypothetically... how illegal is it to cremate a Labrador-shaped man who used to have opinions on women’s rights?”

“Legalities depend on who’s watching and if the dog is microchipped,” he says, slicing another bite. “Also how you’d like the ashes presented.”

The fact that he doesn’t even blink? Arousing.

The fact that he clearly has a system in place?

Dangerous. I’ve got half a mind to ask about volume discounts or whether he offers a punch card.

I think I might be falling in love. On date two.

But who can blame me? He has the vibe of a man who alphabetizes his lube by viscosity.

And probably has a favorites section for “special occasions,” like Tuesdays or first dismemberments.

The man’s energy screams clean tools, full consent, and blackout curtains.

“I have a problem with my garden.”

He refills his fork and dips it in the icing. “Bite?”

If he feeds me, we might need to find an empty coffin and close the lid.

“I’ve had very bad luck with pets,” I say as he leans in, fork raised to my lips. “The garden is getting... crowded.”

He holds the fork in a silent command. It’s a little power play. And I don’t hate it.

“Do you typically feed your clients?” I ask, then take the bite.

It’s delicious. If he hand-fed me anything else, I might start purring like a rescue cat.

I don’t even like being taken care of, but apparently my body does, because everything below my waist is staging a coup and planning our wedding.

“No,” he says, watching me chew. “But you’re not a typical client, are you? Repeat business is... unusual.”

I offer him a bite of my éclair dipped in chocolate because why not? If we’re going to mouthfuck each other with sugar, I get a turn.

It’s obscene, the way his mouth moves. Like he’s dissecting me with his tongue, starting with sugar and ending in sin. I want to taste it off his lips, then off his throat, then see what else he can make disappear with that mouth. I need to leave. Or climb him like a ladder. No in-between.

“How does this work? Do I need to make an appointment to rent the oven or what?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual while the rest of me fixates on what he might be hiding under that neatly pressed suit. Piercings? Oh, I bet his nipple is pierced. Just the one, though, symmetry’s for cowards.

“How many man-sized dogs are we talking about? What state of decomposition?” He tilts his head like a raven listening for death rattles. He knows what I’m asking for. He knows what I’m asking. He has to.

“Several. I’m very unlucky with dogs. Especially the kind with ex-wives and pickup trucks.

” I slice another bite of éclair and chew slowly.

Trying to sound normal. Boring. Not aroused by cremation logistics.

“I imagine some would be just bones. Others might be...” I take a sip of coffee. “Fresh. As in… this week.”

He hums, low and thoughtful. That sound would feel so good against my thighs. Or anywhere, honestly. And where are his red flags? He should have at least one. Maybe the part where he’s casually willing to burn a pile of unverified corpses for me, but considering all things it’s a green light.

“I’m free tonight. Or do you need time to gather them?” he asks. “We can space it out over a few nights if needed.”

He doesn’t offer to excavate and that’s probably smart. He’ll need plausible deniability if Carson asks questions.

“I can make a start. Depends how many I can fit in my SUV.” I swirl the last of my éclair in the melted chocolate and pop it into my mouth. “Some might be foldable.”

He wipes his fingers on a cloth napkin like we’re discussing lawn care. “Would you like a bone saw?” he offers. “I have a spare. A nice one. It’ll make the work easier for the fresh ones. And should you suffer another dog.”

Okay. He’s arming me now. This is either a dream, a felony, or the best date of my life.

“That’s... sweet,” I say, because what else does one say when a man offers you his backup bone saw?

He stands smoothly, his fingers trailing across the table as he picks up his empty plate.

“You brought me raspberry crumble,” he says, like that explains everything. “Icing still warm. On the side. That’s girlfriend behavior.”

Well. Shit. “Should I bring dinner tonight?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He smirks like he already knows how this ends. “I’ll sort that. Any allergies? Dietary restrictions?”

“No. I mean, I’m not a fan of mushrooms. It’s a texture thing,” I say, standing.

“Noted.” He clears our mess with precision that makes me think he absolutely alphabetizes his lube.

I wait while he brings me the saw, in a container that’s part concealment part murder chic and then he walks me to the door with quiet finality, like we haven’t just discussed dismemberment and dinner in the same breath.

“Tonight, bring your dogs to the back entrance. After seven,” he says.

Dogs. Sure. Right. The dogs.

I nod like a woman who isn’t vibrating out of her skin with a crush on the local undertaker and turn to leave, already fantasizing about the sound of a bone saw and that goddamn hum against my throat.

If I don’t get railed against a coffin by the end of this week, I might start biting people out of sheer spite