Page 53 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
“She’s been trying to bait someone into a baking pissing contest since 2012,” I say. “You might be the first one dangerous enough to take her crown.”
She tosses her cloth into the bucket. “Did you reject her baked goods?”
I glance over. “I don’t like sweets.” Then, after a beat, I add, “Well. Didn’t.”
The pizza shows up right on time, like it knows not to piss her off. We head inside. She doesn’t comment on my bare walls, utilitarian furniture, total cop chic. She just kicks off her shoes and makes herself at home. Like she’s not covered in traces of exhumed corpses.
I grab two plates, pour my coffee, her soda. Ice clinks like background music. She’s already tearing open the tiny packets of parmesan like she found them in a box labeled “do not open.”
“What are you baking?” I ask, watching her drown her slice in powdered cheese. “I can help, if you want.”
She pauses, squints at me. “You bake?”
“Not directly. I don’t kill either,” I say, and take my first bite. “But I’m a hell of a support team.”
“A baking accomplice,” she says thoughtfully. “I like that. Edgar can taste test, and Blake can provide moral support. He did invite me to the fair, so there’s that.”
I swallow, chew slower. “What do you need?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe the taser you offered.” She frowns. “Cookie’s actually good. I lied. Edgar loves her pastries. I mean, she owns a bakery. I just… ad-lib from Pinterest.”
“Okay, first of all you don’t ‘just’ anything. Second, if Edgar’s the pastry pope, get his opinion. I’ll handle procurement. Flour. Sugar. Sabotage.”
“Carson?”
“Yeah?” I set my slice down. Something about her tone tightens things in my chest.
“It’s a lot. Walter. Edgar. Blake. And now… cookies or whatever.”
I hate the way her voice dips at the edges.
“I’m built for a lot,” I say.
She smiles, soft and crooked, then dumps more parmesan on her pizza like the emotional moment didn’t happen. “You are built for something. That jaw? Absolutely made for sitting on. Got any more cheese?”
I stare at her. Then at the parmesan. Then back at her. “Did you just segue from oral sex to condiments in the same breath?”
She sighs like I’m the one being weird. “I don’t even know what date we’re on. Not that it really matters. I mean, I have rules. But they’re for bastards, and you’re not that.”
I raise a brow. No argument.
She lifts a finger. “But. I slept with Blake this morning, and it would be rude to sleep with you the same day, unless we were all, you know…” She gestures vaguely. “In the same bed. Like a threesome. Which I’m not opposed to, because damn, you’re both…”
I cough loudly.
“…but we’d need to talk about it first. So I can’t sit on your face until there’s a respectful time buffer between orgasms. For Blake’s sake.”
“I see,” I manage.
She nods. “Not tomorrow, though. I have a date with Edgar.”
“I see,” I say again.
“It was already set,” she shrugs, totally unapologetic. “Parmesan?”
I get the cheese. Because how the hell do you argue with a woman who schedules her sins in chronological order and makes every single one sound like a public service?
“We can kiss, if you want,” she adds, perfectly casual. “To see if it even feels right, or if maybe you’d rather arrest me than fuck me. Because that would get complicated. I can’t be arrested. Women everywhere are counting on me.”
