Page 67 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
Do I care?
Well, yeah. I do.
But also… I like them. Kinda. Maybe. I don’t even know them, really, but Edgar has cheekbones like a villain in a cologne commercial, and Carson’s voice could probably convince me to commit tax fraud. Not in a gay way. Or maybe in a little bit of a gay way.
Shit. I’m spiraling.
I glance at the door.
Carson’s probably going to show up first. Punctual. Intense. Probably already knows everything about me. Probably knows how many times I’ve Googled “can you date a girl who may or may not be murdering people.”
And Edgar? He’ll show up in something dark and dramatic. He probably has opinions about tea. And silk waistcoats. And sex in graveyards.
I stare down at my pastry corpse.
God help me, I want them to like me.
The bell above the café door jingles, and I nearly choke on pastry shrapnel. Because of course he walks in like he owns the place. Like he owns me.
Officer Carson Fucking Smolderpants.
He’s in plain clothes, which somehow makes him more intimidating. Dark jeans, leather jacket, gray t-shirt that clings like it was personally tailored by the gods of chest definition. He’s carrying two coffees and a manila folder that looks like it contains at least one crime scene and maybe my internet search history.
I sit up straighter and wipe pastry crumbs off my lap like I’m not already emotionally naked and halfway to crying into my milk.
“Blake.” He says my name like it’s a case file. Cool. Professional. Deep enough to make my knees consider folding inward.
“Carson,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m sweating through my spine. I fail.
He slides into the seat across from me like we’re already in an interrogation. Puts one of the coffees in front of me. Black. No sugar. I take it like I’m being tested and sip before realizing this is probably how people die in spy movies.
He opens the folder but doesn’t look down at it. His eyes are on me. Piercing. Calculating.
I’m panicking. I smile anyway.
“We need to talk about Jennifer,” he says.
Of course he does. That’s the line. The noir movie line. Cue the dramatic music and internal collapse.
My mouth opens, but my brain stalls. “Is this about, are you investigating her? Is she, are we, am I?”
He raises one hand, calm and steady. “I’m not here to arrest anyone.”
Oh. Okay. I let out a shaky breath and try to sit like a person who isn’t about to cry or pass out or confess to crimes he hasn’t even mentioned.
“I want to help her,” he says, voice serious. “We all do.”
I blink so hard I probably look like I’m trying to Morse code for help. “Wait, so… you’re not here to fight me for her?”
He leans back, one brow arched and takes a slow sip of his own coffee. “Do I look like I’m threatened by a man who brought chocolate milk to a date?”
I open my mouth to argue, but all I have is a whimper and the sudden memory of Jennifer sipping it like it was fine wine and I was the treat. “That was one time. It was flavored nostalgia.”
Carson’s mouth twitches. Just the barest hint of a smile, but it hits like a full-blown hug from a grizzly bear. Is that affection? Was that a joke?
“What are we doing here, then?” I ask, less panicked. “Is this some kind of… support group for emotionally compromised himbos with a murder kink?”
Carson snorts. “Close.”
