Page 57 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
I stare at my phone like it called me fat in Latin.
A hoodie. For a date. With Edgar Templeton, mortician of mystery, man who moaned over a cherry tart like it was foreplay. I should bury Blake in that hoodie just to make a point.
I go feral for twenty minutes, yanking clothes out of drawers, throwing on tops and yanking them off, shouting things like “does this say I want your bone saw or your bones?” to the rhythm of a breakdown.
Eventually, I find it.
A dress with cleavage so aggressive it should be registered as a weapon, but paired with a jacket that says I could commit mail fraud and you’d help me hide the receipts. It’s emotionally confusing. It’s morally flexible. It’s perfect.
I pause before leaving to spritz myself with perfume called “Crimson Velvet” that smells like expensive guilt and the kind ofsex that ruins lives. My lipstick is war paint. My heels say I have secrets. And my panties are… well, hopeful. Just in case.
Chapter Twenty
Jennifer
The steakhouse smells like money and dry-aged sins. All mahogany and mood lighting, the kind of place where the wine list has a sommelier and the steak comes with a legal warning.
I step inside, scanning the dining room.
Edgar is hard to miss. Seated alone at a corner table like a gothic oil painting that just learned how to flirt.
He’s wearing plum. Not purple. Plum. Deep and rich and perfectly tailored, like someone bled a prince for dye and stitched it into a three-piece suit that hugs every morally ambiguous inch of him. The waistcoat is buttoned with surgical precision, his shirt crisp and black as a freshly dug grave. His tie is a simple, brutal slash of obsidian silk. He’s not just dressed. He’s composed. Styled like a man who carries extra cufflinks and a body count.
He sees me, stands like a goddamn gentleman, and smiles. Not wide or showy. Just a faint, knowing upturn of his mouth like he’s already imagined me naked and liked what he saw. Or I’m dessert and he’s deciding whether to savor or devour.
I get a full-body flush so violent it should come with a safe word.
He steps around the table and pulls out my chair, one elegant hand brushing against the small of my back. I feel it like a live wire. The briefest touch, and something inside me clutches its pearls, moans, and passes out.
“You look…” he pauses, eyes dragging over me in a way that should be illegal in public, “…delicious.”
I sit before I drop like my panties want to.
He settles across from me, slow and confident, folding into his seat like the night itself just tucked him in.
My voice stays trapped somewhere between my ribcage and the graveyard of all my better instincts.
Do I want to marry him or ask if he’ll help me hide a torso under the mashed potatoes?
He gestures to the wine list. “I took the liberty of ordering a bottle. It breathes better when it knows who’s drinking it.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the wine or me. I’m also not sure I care.
The waiter appears like he’s been summoned by the devil or Yelp. Mid-forties, thinning hair, and the haunted look of a man who’s dealt with Edgar before. He approaches our table with the resigned caution of someone entering a lion’s enclosure wearing meat perfume.
“Mr. Templeton,” the waiter says. He nods at me, then back to Edgar. “Can I start you with anything?”
Edgar steeples his fingers like he’s about to cast a spell on the menu. “I’ll have the porterhouse. Medium rare. Unless the marbling is too lean today, then I’ll take the lamb. But only if it’s local and not frozen. If it is frozen, just bring me the soup. As long as it’s not tomato-based. Or creamy. I despise creamy.”
The waiter doesn’t even blink. “And sides?”
“Charred broccolini, but only if it’s truly charred. Not scorched. Not limp. Charred. Like it’s been judged by fire. And a baked potato. No sour cream, no chives, no butter. I’ll use my own.”
“You brought your own butter?” I whisper.
He turns to me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Of course. Theirs is whipped. I don’t trust it.”
The waiter writes nothing down. Just stands there absorbing this chaos with the blank expression of someone wondering if food service is worth the free shift meal. He turns to me next.
