USA Today Bestselling Author of Haunted Ever After
Ghost Business
Jen DeLuca is the USA Today bestselling author of the Well Met and the Boneyard Key series. She lives in the Arizona desert with her husband, their rescue dog, and almost too many cats.
Praise for Haunted Ever After
“The tension in this romance is elegantly poised around knowing when to hold on and when to let go—and the Gothic plot in the tropical setting makes this a standout paranormal.”
—The New York Times
“Jen DeLuca does it again! Like your favorite iced latte from the hot barista who totally hates you (but not really), Haunted Ever After is the most delicious mix of chilling haunts and sweetened kisses to perk you right up. It’s the perfect read for all the October girls who have to suffer through summer at the beach. A spirited, sexy read!”
—Ashley Poston, New York Times bestselling author of Sounds Like Love
“I, too, want a ghost roommate (and Nick’s banana bread and hazelnut lattes) in a charming beach town where the dead linger and the living locals know all the best secret spots. Haunted Ever After is so much fun, with characters that feel real, spooky vibes mixed with small-town sweetness, and an intriguing dash of mystery. Just like its invisible residents, I never want to leave Boneyard Key.”
—Sarah Hogle, author of The Folklore of Forever
“Jen DeLuca brings her signature wit and warmth to a town where even ghosts can believe in true love. Featuring a charming, swoonworthy romance, Haunted Ever After is a sheer pleasure to read and has established Boneyard Key as my new favorite spooky vacation spot.”
—Gwenda Bond, New York Times bestselling author of The Frame-Up
“Haunted Ever After is Jen DeLuca’s best yet, and that’s saying something. A deeply satisfying brew of longing, feels, and ghostly hijinks, this is a love story that delivers the goods. Plus, DeLuca’s thoughtful commentary on the expectations we place on women— past and present—is cinnamon on the banana bread. Oh, my romantic, feminist heart!”
—Megan Bannen, author of The Undermining of Twyla and Frank
“Clever, funny, and a bit spooky, Haunted Ever After will appeal to cozy mystery and paranormal romance readers alike. . . . DeLuca creates a charming town full of entertainingly quirky characters sure to leave readers wanting more stories set in Boneyard Key.”
—Shelf Awareness
Praise for Well Matched
“A great comfort read. Warm, sweet, and hopeful, Well Matched is about daring to come out of your shell and building the life you always wanted.”
—Helen Hoang, New York Times bestselling author of The Heart Principle
“This series is one of my ultimate comfort reads. I knew I’d adore April and Mitch together, but I didn’t realize how deeply obsessed with them I’d be. Well Matched is for anyone whose life hasn’t gone according to plan, and about all the joys that come with veering off course. Warm and witty, sweet and sexy—this tender hug of a book is Jen DeLuca at her best.”
—Rachel Lynn Solomon, New York Times bestselling author of Weather Girl
“Jen DeLuca writes with exceptional warmth. Well Matched is cozy, sweet, and brimming with charm. It’s such a joy to go back to the Faire with Mitch and April!”
—Rosie Danan, national bestselling author of The Intimacy Experiment
“Well Matched is completely charming and delightfully touching. DeLuca delivers a love story that leaves you feeling as warm and fuzzy as you are hot and bothered. April’s vulnerability and humor are endearing, and Mitch is book- boyfriend goals in a kilt—I couldn’t put it down.”
—Denise Williams, author of Do You Take This Man
“With well- drawn characters and laugh- out-loud scenes, Well Matched is a perfect opposites-attract romance.” —Shelf Awareness
“This sexy, witty, fast-paced romantic comedy has surprising emotional depth.” Library Journal
“DeLuca’s enchanting tale of unsought love developing over home improvement tasks and making family members happy, cheerfully set against the charming backdrop of a Renaissance Faire, is a joy to read.” Booklist
Praise for Well Played
“Stacey fi nds her greatest joy at the Faire, looking forward to its return each year. In DeLuca’s hands, we’d have to agree—there are endless tales and excitement to be found in this world, still one of the freshest, most engaging concepts in romance a year after she introduced us to it. A hearty huzzah for Well Played.”
—Entertainment Weekly
Praise for Well Met
“What a delight! This is enemies-to-lovers at its absolute fi nest, folks. DeLuca proves to be a master of creating characters you believe in and a storyline to keep you totally engrossed. Well Met is a hilarious, swoony, and captivating romance—hands down our new favorite feel-good novel of the year.”
—New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren
“Well Met will especially appeal to readers who like bookstores, Renaissance Faire shenanigans, and nerdy English teachers wearing vests. DeLuca will have readers laughing all the way to the turkey leg vendor.”
—Shelf Awareness
“Full of wit, hilarious banter, and swoon-worthy moments.”
—Woman’s World
“Jen DeLuca’s Well Met is a way-cute small-town romance.”
—NPR
“Jen DeLuca had me laughing out loud from the opening line. Well Met is fresh, fun, and the story I never knew I needed. I so wish I could grab a corset and live the wench life with Emily!”
—Alexa Martin, author of Fumbled
“The descriptions of [Simon] in his pirate gear . . . are likely to induce a thirst so wide and so deep you could sail a ship across it.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Filled with originality, humor, charm, [and] emotional depth.”
—New York Times bestselling author Samantha Young
“I dare you not to want to travel to your nearest Renaissance Faire after reading the sweet, sexy, and smart Well Met . . . the kind of book that you want to live inside. Jen DeLuca is poised to become one of the freshest voices writing contemporary romance today.”
—Kate Clayborn, author of Best of Luck
“DeLuca turns in an intelligent, sexy, and charming debut romance sure to resonate with Renaissance Faire enthusiasts and those looking for an upbeat, lighter read.” Library Journal
ALSO BY JEN D E LUCA
Well Met
Well Played
Well Matched
Well Traveled
Haunted Ever After
Ghost Business
JEN D E LUCA
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This book is, sadly, for all of you who read Haunted Ever After and were excited for Sophie and Theo’s book to be next. Whoops. Hope you like this one anyway!
TOnehis guy was way overdressed for an oyster bar.
Sophie squinted in his direction as she hoisted herself onto one of the barstools at The Haunt. The bar made a big L on the lefthand side of the restaurant. Sophie sat at one end, and while she pretended to study the menu she could recite like the Pledge of Allegiance, she kept stealing glances at the guy sitting at the hinge of the L. His blond hair was rumpled, but his light blue dress shirt was immaculate, though the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was most of the way through a platter of oysters on the half shell, and midway through the pint of beer next to it. While she watched, Tony approached the stranger from his place behind the bar.
“All good, man?”
The stranger nodded emphatically. “Incredible. You just catch these oysters today or what?” He had the kind of smile that made his eyes practically disappear, wide and sincere.
Tony snorted but was obviously pleased by the attention. “Yeah, I’m totally a fi sherman.” His words were dismissive, but he lingered, keeping his attention on the new guy while he put away a load of beer mugs. “How’s your stay so far? See any ghosts yet?”
Now it was the blond stranger’s turn to snort. “Yeah, right. Loads.”
Was that sarcasm? Sophie raised her eyebrows as Tony froze. “Really?”
The stranger barked out a laugh, turning his attention back to the food in front of him. “Wouldn’t that be something. Like, if ghosts were actually real.”
“Yeah . . .” Tony drew out the word as he put the last of the mugs away. “That sure would be something.” He tossed a glance Sophie’s way as he went to return the dish rack to the kitchen, and she eyed the new guy again. She’d never seen him before, and he was obviously new around here, even though he carried himself with the ease of a local. But tourists visiting Boneyard Key were usually here for the ghosts. Most haunted small town in Florida and all that. If he wasn’t here for that, what was he doing here?
“How about you, Soph?” Sophie jerked her eyes away from the blond stranger and looked instead at Tony, who stood in front of her with one eyebrow raised. “You ordering anything tonight, or do you just want to fl irt with the cute guy over there?”
Heat rushed into her cheeks as she shushed him. “I’m not fl irting!” She chastised him in a loud whisper, trying to speak softer than the satellite radio station playing yacht rock through the speakers over their heads. She’d heard their whole conversation, so surely the guy down the bar could hear them too.
“Not yet, you’re not.” Laughter danced in his dark eyes as he nodded toward the menu. “You want your usual?”
She should order something new tonight, just to spite Tony. But he knew her better than that. She’d seen him put glue in Courtney Royer’s hair in the second grade, and he hadn’t ratted her out when she’d taken a bite out of a green crayon to see what it tasted like. So instead she sighed and set down the menu that she’d barely bothered to look at. “Chef salad, no tomatoes. Diet Coke.”
A smile played around Tony’s mouth as he set her glass down, Diet
Coke already poured and fi zzing around its ice, onto a coaster in front of her. “Coming right up. Go say hi to him. He’s from out of town.”
Sophie shushed him again. She wasn’t the kind of girl who stared at strangers in bars. And she sure as hell didn’t fl irt with them. But she couldn’t help it; as soon as Tony was gone, her gaze wandered back toward the blond stranger.
Who was looking right back at her.
Their gazes colliding was practically tangible, and Sophie wasn’t ready for it. She ducked her head immediately, wide eyes dropping down to the bar. Suddenly very interested in the weathered woodgrain in front of her, she took a long pull off her Diet Coke. The cold drink did nothing to quell the fi re blazing in her cheeks.
When she looked up, he was gone. No, not gone. Worse. He’d moved closer, sliding his platter of oysters down the bar with him.
“Did I hear you order a salad?” Mr. Blond Business Casual shook his head in mock censure. “A salad? When you can get oysters?” He shook a few drops of Tabasco onto one in illustration and tilted his head back to slurp it down. Sophie tried to not watch the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Slurping down an oyster shouldn’t be sexy.
She gave a small shake of her head. “I’m not one for oysters, sadly.” And it was sad. She used to love them. Especially lightly steamed and on the half shell, the way this guy took them. But it had only taken one bad oyster, followed by an even worse night sleeping on the cold bathroom floor, for her to swear them off entirely.
“You’re missing out.” He slurped down another one, laying the empty shell on his plate and giving a happy sigh. “Damn, Florida seafood’s the best, isn’t it?”
Now, that Sophie could agree with. “They do it right here.” She could put away a basket of fried shrimp like nobody’s business. But Friday nights were tour nights, and she liked to eat light. A platter of
fried shrimp would make her want to go home and crawl into bed, not lead a walking tour of Boneyard Key.
“You live around here?” He took a sip from his glass of beer as he gave her his full attention. His eyes were startlingly light, but it was too dark in here to tell if they were blue or green. The pupils stood out in stark contrast, dark bullet points of attention aimed right at Sophie.
“I do.” Another sip of Diet Coke, wetting down her suddenly very dry mouth. “How could you tell?” She wasn’t good at this. At being the center of attention. In front of a crowd, answering questions about Boneyard Key and the ghosts that lived there? She could handle that, no problem. But one-on-one, being asked personal questions? People didn’t usually want to know much about her.
He nodded toward the bar, at the menu that she’d stashed between the napkin holder and ketchup bottle. “You barely looked at the menu. And he asked if you wanted your usual.”
“Ah.” The fl ames in Sophie’s cheeks traveled to the back of her neck, setting up prickles there. If he’d heard that, he’d heard Tony make fun of her for staring . . . God, what a mess.
“I’m pretty good at sussing out these kinds of things.” He shot her a conspiratorial smile as he wiped his hands carefully on a napkin before extending one of them. “I’m Tristan.”
“Sophie.” His hand was warm, his nails neatly manicured. Her heart gave a little fl ip at the way his smile widened, eyes crinkling at the edges. She’d put that smile on his face. Suddenly she wanted to keep it there.
“Are you here on vacation?” she asked. “Because if you are, I have to say you’re a little overdressed.” Despite his sleeves being rolled up—probably to avoid any errant oyster juice on his cuff s—he looked like he was just coming from a board meeting, not settling in to watch the steel drum band’s fi rst set.
His laugh was easy, not too loud, and not at all self-conscious.
This was a guy who laughed a lot. “You got me,” he said. “I’m new to Florida. Back home, khakis are as casual as I get.” He gestured down to his pants with a rueful smile. “But I see I have to seriously up my leisure game here. Any recommendations?”
“Well . . .” Sophie smiled a thanks to Tony as he set her chef salad in front of her, then unwrapped her utensils and put her napkin in her lap. “Unless you’re into Hawaiian shirts, something without a collar is a good place to start. We have several fi ne T- shirt establishments for all your casual-wear needs.”
“That’s an excellent start.” He reached for another oyster as she started on her salad. “Is there a particular one you’d recommend?”
She shook her head. “You want to know a secret?”
“Of course I do.” His eyes sparked as he leaned toward her, and she leaned in right back.
“Okay, you didn’t hear it from me. This is a locals-only thing.” His eyebrows went up in amused anticipation, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “They all sell the same crap.”
“What?” He leaned back in feigned shocked surprise. “Are you telling me that souvenir shops in Florida do not offer uniquely crafted, fi ne artisanal goods?”
“It’s true.” Sophie forked up a bite of lettuce and hard-boiled egg. “And where can I fi nd said shops?”
She nodded toward the door. “Go outside, stand in the street, and throw a rock. You’re guaranteed to hit one.”
He snorted. “You haven’t seen me throw. I’d probably break a window and spend the night in the clink.”
“The clink?” Sophie blinked. “Are you my great-aunt Alice? Who uses that term?”
Tristan laughed again, and wow. He had a laugh that Sophie could really get used to. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got an old-fashioned soul.”
“Hmm.” She rested her cheek in her hand, studying him. “I can relate to that.” With as much time as she spent with her head in the past? She could absolutely relate to that.
Tristan mirrored her pose: elbow on the bar, leaning his cheek on his hand, studying her right back. This kind of thing didn’t happen to Sophie. Guys never fl irted with her. They fl irted with her best friend, Libby, with her blond ponytail, long legs, and sunny smile. Their eyes usually skidded right over short, bespectacled Sophie, who was a tiny, dark-haired nerd in contrast.
But Libby wasn’t here, not tonight. And Tristan was still smiling at her.
“You want another round, kids?” Tony showed up at the worst time, and as much as Sophie appreciated his dedication to service, she wished he’d be a little more of a slacker. As a personal favor.
“Sure. Not the oysters, though.” Tristan laid a hand on his ridiculously fl at stomach. “Not sure I could do another round of those. But I’ll take another beer. That lager that you have on draft, that’s fantastic. How about you, Sophie? Can I buy you another drink?” He looked pointedly at her Diet Coke, which was down to watery ice. “Or maybe your fi rst drink?”
She would love that. Telling him no had just become the worst part of her night. “I can’t.” It was fl attering, right? The way Tristan’s face fell a little at her rejection? That was the only consolation she had here. “Believe me, I wish I could. But I have to get to work.” She was running late, by the looks of the band. They’d just fi nished setting up, and their fi rst set went on at seven fi fteen sharp. Her tour started at seven thirty; she’d lingered longer than usual.
“Work?” His eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding. On a Friday night? Here?”
Okay, that made her bristle. “Not all of us are on vacation, you
know.” She slid her debit card to Tony, who took it with only a slight roll of his eyes. Yeah. He was bristling too.
“Point taken, sorry.” Tristan at least had the grace to look shamefaced, and Sophie’s ire cooled as quickly as it had come on. “What do you do? Let me guess. You sing with the band?” He nodded toward the steel drums.
Only in her worst nightmares. “I’m not nearly that talented,” she said with a laugh. “No, I give ghost tours.”
He blinked. “You do what?”
“Ghost tours,” she repeated. “Every Friday night. Saturday nights too, this time of year when there’s more tourist traffic. I don’t know how familiar you are with Boneyard Key, but we’re the most haunted small town in Florida.”
“I’d heard something about that.”
There was tension in his nod, an unease in his voice, but Sophie brushed it aside as she warmed up to her favorite topic. She was used to skeptics. Sometimes she could even win them over. “It sounds like a gimmick, I know. Have you ever been on a ghost tour before?”
“I . . .” He shifted on his barstool and took a sip of the beer that Tony had just delivered. “Yeah,” he fi nally said. “A few, here and there.”
“Oh, good!” Relief swept through her. That saved time, for sure. “Then you know what they’re about. Mine’s a little walking tour of mostly the downtown area. You get a history lesson, well, a couple of history lessons. The regular and the haunted kind, you know?”
“Yeah.” But something weird had happened to Tristan’s face while she’d been talking. His smile was gone, and those eyes that crinkled so enticingly now looked glazed over. Now he drummed his fi ngers lightly on the bar, fidgeted with his balled-up napkin.
That hadn’t taken long. She’d bored the crap out of him in rec-
ord time. Maybe she should have led with her day job. I work from home, doing medical transcriptions. It’s repetitive and sucks out my will to live most of the time, but it pays the bills. It was a solid job, though. A career. Guys respected things like that. Running a ghost tour was frivolous in comparison. A silly way to make a living. Part of a living.
Sophie could take a hint. “Anyway.” She signed the slip Tony had left by her elbow and tucked her card away. “I have a group waiting, so I need to get going.” She hopped off the barstool as gracefully as she could, but from that height it was really more of a controlled fall. “It was nice to meet you, Tristan.” Her words hung in the air between them, fading away to the sounds of Crosby, Stills & Nash from the speakers above. Sophie fought back a sigh of defeat. “I hope you have a nice stay here.” She didn’t wait for him to respond. She just tossed him a wave and turned to go.
The steel drum band started up their set, the beginning of another Friday night party at The Haunt. But it was time for Sophie to go to work. She couldn’t dwell on the cute tourist she left at the bar and her failed attempt at fl irting. She had a full group tonight, which was why she’d splurged on dinner out before the tour.
But it was still all she could do to not smack herself in the forehead on the way out the door. She was a disaster. No wonder she was single.
Two
Where in the hell had she come from?
Tristan turned his head to watch Sophie leave. He couldn’t help it; he’d been drawn into her orbit from the moment she’d sat down, and now his head turned, the movement involuntary. Her dark red turtleneck was formfitting without being aggressively tight, clinging to the dip of her waist where the sweater met the waistband of her jeans. His fi ngers itched to explore that bottom edge of fabric, that dip. But he made himself stay seated while she bumped the outer door with her hip as she shrugged into her coat. The thud of the thick wooden door swinging shut behind her was like waking up from a dream.
Tristan liked fl irting. He traveled a lot, and he’d gotten really good at it. He liked pretty girls. He liked cute guys too. But there had been something about Sophie. The way her laugh felt like a reward, the way her smile was a place he wanted to sink into, get lost in. It had been a long time since he’d seen a smile like hers.
He wished she’d stuck around longer, let him buy her that drink. He wanted to talk to her some more.
Because it had really sounded like she’d said she ran a ghost tour. And that couldn’t be right.
Tristan took a long sip from his second lager before setting it
down carefully on the square coaster in front of him. The coaster seemed superfluous; the bar he’d bellied up to earlier this evening had obviously seen some stuff. The wood was weathered, pockmarked in places, with initials carved into it at one edge. He really hoped that those crazy kids J.G. and M.L. had managed to make it work.
Across the bar, the house band, composed of what looked like retirees playing steel drums, had swung into the most bizarre cover of “Friends in Low Places” he’d ever heard. It was . . . loud.
That explained it. It was loud in here. Obviously, he’d misheard Sophie when she said she ran a ghost tour. Because Tristan knew better; there wasn’t a ghost tour in Boneyard Key, Florida.
He should know, because he was here to start one.
He’d done his due diligence. He always did his due diligence; it had been drilled into him, not only in business school but at his father’s knee. Most kids had nursery rhymes; Tristan Martin grew up with phrases like “angel investors” and “balance sheet.” Before he’d even booked the fl ight to Florida, he’d researched the town of Boneyard Key. He had one rule: never start up a ghost tour in a town that already had market saturation. He’d learned that the hard way, and he still wasn’t welcome back in Savannah. (Tristan hadn’t even realized that being run out of town on a rail was still a thing.)
His research on this place had turned up nothing. Which made no sense—a ghost tour in the “most haunted small town in Florida” was a no-brainer. But there’d been no website, no social media presence. A couple mentions on Yelp or Tripadvisor, but in the context of another review: “got a cup of coffee here after the ghost tour,” that kind of thing. And besides, those mentions had all been prepandemic, and how many small, tourist-centric businesses had gone under during those times?
But now here she was. All dark eyes behind big glasses and curl-
ing brown hair, not to mention the sweetest smile Tristan had ever seen. Picking her way through a chef salad, making sure she got all the egg pieces, smiling at him in a way that made him think he had a chance. Then she’d dropped that bomb on the way out the door.
There was only one thing to do now. Go after her.
Tristan signed his credit card slip but left the tip in cash—forty percent. Those were some damn good oysters; he was going to be back. Then he nodded his thanks to the bartender—a tall, dark, and handsome man with a chiseled jaw that reminded Tristan of a theatre major he’d dated briefly in college (yeah, he’d defi nitely be back)—and headed for the door. As it closed behind him, the steel drum band faded to a background thrumming, just loud enough to beckon him to go back inside. Join the party.
But Tristan wasn’t in a party mood. Not anymore.
The humidity of the warm Florida evening hit him like a wet towel to the face. Night had fallen in earnest while he’d been inside eating oysters and fl irting with a pretty ghost tour guide. Tristan looked up and down the street. How was he going to fi nd her? She’d said her tour was mostly downtown, so that was a good enough place to start.
He’d already walked Beachside Drive—the main drag in town— earlier today when he’d fi rst arrived in Boneyard Key. It hadn’t taken him long to fall in love with the place. He’d felt his blood pressure lower the more he walked around the charming downtown teeming with souvenir shops, boutiques, coffee shops, restaurants, and an alarming number of places to get ice cream. The sidewalks were wide, the vintage-looking buildings were painted in soft pastel shades, and the window displays invited slow, meandering strolls. Heading north took you to a bend in the road to the right, past even more charming historic beach cottages to a fi shing pier, complete with a bait shack that looked like something out of a postcard.
This wasn’t a downtown like a city. He certainly wasn’t in Chicago or New York. Here, the streetlights that lined the main drag each boasted a white fl ag shaped like a cartoon ghost, fluttering gently if not at all spookily in the dark. The glow of the faux gas-lamp streetlights recalled an earlier century. A horse and buggy clattering down the street wouldn’t have surprised Tristan in the least.
He loved the look of this town. He’d been so excited when his father had mentioned the latest acquisition to his real estate portfolio: a beachside condo in a small Florida tourist town. It was a modest investment, but guaranteed to turn a steady profit year-round. The name of the town, of course, had sparked Tristan’s interest more than anything. A tourist town, by the beach, that had a macabre- themed name? Boneyard Key seemed like the kind of place that screamed for a ghost tour, and Tristan was more than happy to fi ll that void.
But apparently that void had already been fi lled. So where was she? Tristan stopped on the corner, where a coffee shop named Spooky Brew was closed up for the night. This was a downtown that rolled up its sidewalks after dark, even on a Friday. Most of the souvenir shops were closed, but a couple of open restaurants dotted the landscape with glowing windows. Up the street, another coffee shop had its lights on, but the Closed sign was fl ipped over.
Tristan hurried up the street, his own footsteps echoing back in his ears. How hard was it to fi nd a walking tour in this town?
Just then, he heard a voice across the street.
“This was the mayor’s house for decades. But about thirty years ago or so, when a new mayor was elected, he moved in—and then moved out the very next day. Resigned his post too. They had to have a special election and everything.”
A thrill went up Tristan’s spine. He knew that voice. Sophie. He
also knew that kind of cadence. He knew the sound of being followed by five to ten pairs of feet. He’d found her.
Of course, now that he’d found her, he didn’t know how to proceed. Crashing the tour felt stalkery and unprofessional, but that was exactly what he needed to do. There was no way he could hide among a group of six people, so he fell back a step or two, blending into the shadows between streetlights.
Sophie continued her story. “No one knows what exactly happened that night, but no mayor of Boneyard Key ever lived here again. The city moved the Chamber of Commerce here in the late nineties, and whatever spooked the mayor so badly seems to be okay with the new resident.”
She led the tour away from the house, and Tristan squinted at it as he followed along a few beats behind. It didn’t look like a haunted house—not that he would know, because haunted houses weren’t real. Neither were ghosts.
The tour paused at a vacant lot, not too far from The Haunt, where coffee and ice cream carts were closed up tight, side by side. The tour gathered under the streetlight, and Tristan took the opportunity to duck behind the closed-up ice cream cart to stay out of sight. “Now, there’s a little path here, between the dunes . . .” She gestured just past the carts, to a sanded- over path that Tristan couldn’t see from his vantage point. “If you go down that way, it takes you straight to the beach. A word of warning, though. If you decide to take a walk down there at this time of night, well, you may have company.”
He frowned. Sophie didn’t do things the way he did. She wasn’t playing a character, adding a dramatic fl air to her storytelling. She wasn’t even in costume—just wearing the same jeans and sneakers she’d been in at The Haunt, same red sweater and blue peacoat that
had been hanging on the back of her chair. What was she thinking? She could be doing so much more with this. Give the people a real experience, the way he did.
“I don’t know the full story of the Beach Bum—that’s what I call him. My theory is that he’s someone who was wandering home after a night out and went the wrong direction. Like into the ocean wrong direction. If you’re out here at night—especially after a night out at The Haunt and you’ve had a drink or two—chances are you’ll have company. Footsteps in the sand, following you all the way home. Some people like to leave him a beer, opened on one of the picnic tables. That’s how you win him over, according to my friend Nick.”
A couple of tourists made intrigued noises, and Tristan had to hold himself back from doing the same. Well, damn. Maybe she didn’t need dramatic fl air. He wanted to know more about the Beach Bum, which was of course a sign of a good storyteller. Where had Sophie’s stories come from? While he encouraged his employees to riff on the script according to their location, his stories were all based off that fi rst ghost tour script he’d written back in college. Had Sophie been inspired by the beachside location and made up something ocean related? He wanted to ask her.
No, he didn’t. He was pissed at her. All that talk at the bar about being a local, but there was no way. She had to be new in town, just like he was. Sure, maybe she’d beaten him here by a few weeks, and gotten her tour up and running faster. But Boneyard Key was still up for grabs.
And he was going to grab it. He needed to.
“We’re coming up on the end of the tour now.” Her voice was bright, cheerful and happy, and it lit something up in Tristan’s chest, almost against his will. The lamplight bounced off her glasses and made her dark hair shine as it tumbled down her back. “We’ll head
over to where we started, at Hallowed Grounds. I can see from here that the light is on. Nick has very generously offered to keep the place open, in case anyone wants any coffee to go. And as a thankyou for spending some of your evening with me, I have two-for-one drink coupons for The Haunt, right down the street that way. If you’ll follow me, I can give those out and we can say good night.”
Tristan knew he should stay in the shadows. Once the group had crossed the street and gone safely into Hallowed Grounds, he was home free. But he found himself coming out from behind the ice cream cart and taking a step toward them, wanting to follow them inside. Wanting to see Sophie again. Get some answers. And maybe another shot at that smile.
But then his phone vibrated in his hip pocket, ruining everything. Tristan’s heart sank when he checked it. So much for talking to Sophie.
“Hey, Dad.” He kept his voice light as he turned his back on Hallowed Grounds, walking quickly toward The Haunt before his voice could carry.
“How’s my investment?” Sebastian Martin wasn’t one for pleasantries.
Tristan took a stab at answering the vague question. “The condo’s great. I got in around noon, and everything was smooth sailing. The management company left the key at the office, and the utilities are turned on. Thanks again for letting me use it while I’m in town.” He paused outside The Haunt. Once he wrapped up this phone call maybe he’d stop for another beer. He had a feeling he’d need one. “The wraparound balcony’s to die for, and the living room has these huge picture windows. Incredible view of the Gulf of Mexico. You’d love it.” Okay, he was babbling now. Talking about the virtues of Sebastian Martin’s latest real estate holding as though the man was ever going to set foot in this town.
“Good to know,” his father said, but his tone said wrong answer. “But I’m talking about my investment in your company.”
“Ah.” Yeah, that made more sense. And what terrible timing, since Tristan’s mind was still spinning about that. “Well, I’ve hit a little snag.” He looked over his shoulder, where the light in the window at Hallowed Grounds was a bright dot in the darkened street.
“What kind of snag?” His father’s voice sharpened, and Tristan’s spine straightened in an automatic response. He reminded himself that he was twenty- seven and far too old to be grounded, but try telling that to his lizard brain.
“Not sure yet. I’m still trying to figure that out.” Tristan pressed a thumb to the space between his eyebrows, staving off the headache that threatened. Maybe that second beer had been a bad idea, though the more likely cause was this conversation with his dad.
“You better figure it out fast, son. You have until October fi rst, remember.”
“Dad.” A sigh gusted out of him, but sadly the tension in his shoulders remained—also caused by this conversation. “It’s February.”
“I’m well aware. I’m also well aware that I invested in Ghouls Night Out—ridiculous name—after you graduated with your business degree. I gave you five years to turn a profit, and those five years are up on October fi rst.”
“Yes, and—”
But he continued as though Tristan hadn’t spoken. Typical. “That’s when you turn your books over to me, and I judge whether or not you created a viable, profitable business geared toward longterm success, or if you wasted your time on a vanity project that’s gone nowhere.”
“The books are fi ne, Dad—” That was mostly the truth, so he didn’t feel too bad saying it.
“If it’s the latter, which I strongly suspect it is, I pull my investment. And you come work for me. That was our agreement.”
“Dad.” His voice was approaching a whine, making Tristan sound like a teenager on the verge of being grounded, but dammit, that was how he felt. “You can’t just pull your investment. We’d—”
“You’d never recover.” His father fi nished the sentence for him.
“That’s the point. You shouldn’t need my money anymore. After five years? You should be able to stand on your own.”
“Dad,” he said again, sharply enough that a couple passersby glanced in his direction and his father fi nally stopped talking. “You know we had a pandemic, right? Remember when the country all but shut down? That kind of killed the momentum. We’re regaining it now, but it’s still . . .”
“Still rocky. I knew it.” There was a pause. “You have a good brain, son.” His voice had softened. It was still terrifying, but softer.
“Thanks.” That may have been the biggest compliment he’d ever gotten from his father, yet Tristan’s response dripped with sarcasm.
“I hate to see you waste it on this. It’s too much like that theatre crap you did while you were in school.”
“It’s not crap. And neither is Ghouls Night Out. We’re turning a profit in almost every location, so expanding here in Boneyard Key makes perfect sense. You should see this place, Dad. This town is made for stuff like this. Once I get this one established, it’s going to be a real moneymaker. The books are going to look great by October fi rst. I guarantee it.”
“Hmph.” His father didn’t sound convinced, but apparently Tristan had pled enough of his case to satisfy him for the night. “Just make sure you take care of the condo. Don’t trash it.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “I’m twenty- seven, Dad. My frat boy days are long behind me.” Okay, maybe not that long, but he was old
enough to understand property values. The last thing he was going to do was destroy his father’s investment. Either in the real estate market or the ghost tour business.
He needed to make this location work. If his father pulled his investment, then everything he’d been working so hard to build for the past five years would disintegrate like a sandcastle at high tide. Worse, he’d have to go work for his dad. And while Sebastian Martin was considered one of the country’s foremost investment bankers, Tristan would make a terrible fi nance bro.
As much as he hated to admit it, his dad’s call came at a good time. Because as much as Sophie intrigued him back at the bar and he wanted to get another look at her smile, his mind needed to be on work. And if she was running a competing ghost tour, well. She’d just become the enemy. And in business, you don’t fl irt with the enemy.
You crush them.
Three
Sophie couldn’t stop thinking about Tristan. Obviously. He’d stayed on her mind during the whole ghost tour; she even thought she’d spotted him in the back of the crowd on Beachside after the Chamber of Commerce stop. Ridiculous. So at the end of the evening she made a deal with herself—she had the entire walk home to get him out of her mind. No more, no less.
It was a short walk: through the historic district, past The Haunt, around the corner past some more souvenir shops, and fi nally to the newer section of town. Sophie’s condo building had been built in the 1980s, targeting tourists, retirees, and snowbirds looking for a second home in Florida. These days the units were mostly vacation rentals, registering as little more than a blip in the ledger for real estate moguls. But here and there an actual year-round resident could be spotted—people who had invested early, back when an almost-beachfront unit in Florida was affordable. That’s what Sophie’s great- aunt Alice had done, and as inheritances went, it couldn’t be beat.
Inside, the place looked much like it had when Aunt Alice had been alive. Sophie had moved her books from her bedroom to the bookcase in the living room, and she’d updated the appliances one expensive year, but those were the only real changes she’d made.
Candles of all sizes were still grouped in the no-longer-working fi replace, and Aunt Alice’s record collection still nestled, along with its turntable, in a corner of the living room. Books lay scattered across the coffee table, and the dining table in its nook was more of a home office where Sophie occasionally ate. The place was cluttered, but it was cozy. And it was all Sophie’s, as long as she could keep paying the property taxes.
Sophie locked the door behind her and froze. She took a deep breath, all thoughts of Tristan and his smile instantly forgotten. Then she took out her phone and called her best friend, Libby.
“I can smell it again.” She barely gave Libby time to say hello. “Jasmine, the second I walk in the door.”
Libby didn’t answer at fi rst, and Sophie could tell she was biting back a sigh. “Sophie.” Her voice was kind, but with a tinge of exasperation. Sophie was ready for that. They’d had this conversation too many times by now.
“I’m just saying. What if your grandmother was wrong? What if . . . ?” Her throat threatened to close up at the thought.
“Nan wasn’t wrong,” Libby said gently. “She’s never wrong. She did a really thorough scan of the condo after Alice died. She even went back a second time, remember?”
“I remember.” Libby’s grandmother had given her a dressingdown, telling her that this second visit was a waste of time. There was nothing that a ghost hunter could get on a second sweep of a home that she couldn’t get the fi rst time.
“If your great-aunt had stuck around, Nan would have made contact. Simple as that.”
“Yeah.” She knew it was the truth, but sometimes—more than sometimes—Sophie wished it weren’t quite that simple. That this jasmine scent that sometimes greeted her when she came home really was Aunt Alice, sticking around to check on her. There was proba-
bly a more down-to-earth explanation: stray molecules of Aunt Alice’s favorite perfume living in the air vents, left over from the thirty-something years she’d lived in this condo. “You’re right,” she fi nally said, swallowing hard against her sadness. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” The exasperation was gone from Libby’s voice, and now only kindness remained. “Comes with the territory. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in these years as Nan’s assistant, it’s that grief can do weird things to the brain.”
“It can’t still be grief, though. Alice has been gone a while.”
“Only a few years. That’s not long in the grand scheme of things. Grief isn’t linear, you know; it comes in waves. Apparently even years later it can hit you in the back of the knees.”
“Yeah.” Well, that part made sense. Sophie had been hit in the back of the knees herself a few times since Aunt Alice had gone.
“Hey, not to change the subject,” Libby said, absolutely changing the subject, “but I heard you met a hottie at The Haunt tonight.”
“How?” A startled laugh escaped her chest as Sophie plopped down on the sofa. “How did you hear that?”
But of course she knew the answer before Libby said a word. “Tony.” The two women spoke at the same time. Sophie sighed, while Libby chuckled.
“Okay, well, technically it was Cassie. She and Nick were at The Haunt—”
“They were? I didn’t see them.”
“You know them. They were probably tucked back in some corner, being all lovey-dovey and disgusting. Anyway, Cassie said she saw right as you were leaving, and when Nick went up to the bar to settle the bill, Tony told him—”
“Word gets around here fast, doesn’t it?”
Libby kept going like Sophie hadn’t interrupted. “He said that you’d been making eyes at some tourist.”
Embarrassment covered Sophie in a full-body flush. “I wasn’t making eyes . . .” But she had been, hadn’t she? How had she looked to Tony? Had he been laughing at her? Wouldn’t be the fi rst time. “Okay, maybe I was making eyes. A little.”
Libby’s chuckle became a full- on laugh. “Did he make eyes back? Tell me everything.”
Sophie didn’t want to tell her everything. Because “everything” included her boring the crap out of Tristan, talking his ear off about ghost tours when he couldn’t care less. “Not a lot to tell.” That was a lie. There was plenty to tell. He had great eyes, a compelling smile. The way this man—someone she’d known all of five minutes—had looked at her made her feel more seen than she ever had in her life. But Sophie dismissed all that; what was the point? “He’s a tourist,” she said instead, because she obviously needed the reminder. “Probably just here for the weekend. He was cute, we talked a little, then I left to do my Friday night tour. The end.”
“Hmph.” Libby sounded disappointed. “That could have gone better.”
“You’re telling me.” Sophie’s laugh sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“Eh, don’t worry about it.” On the other end of the line, Libby was probably waving a dismissive hand. “He’s a tourist, like you said. It’s not like he’s sticking around.”
“Yeah.” He’s not sticking around. The words hit like a small dart, all the more painful because Sophie knew that Libby didn’t mean it like that. She wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings. But that didn’t stop Sophie from making a few more polite noises and hanging up as fast as she could. Sophie tossed her phone to the coffee table and closed her eyes, chasing that jasmine scent that had all but faded while she’d talked to Libby. Every time she caught it, she felt like a kid again: held against her great-aunt’s soft bosom, surrounded
by her powdery jasmine perfume, feeling safe, like the world couldn’t touch her.
Sometimes that memory expanded to include her father. Always by the front door, one hand on the doorknob, saying he’d be back soon to visit. And he did come back, at fi rst. But the visits became less and less frequent as it became apparent that he’d moved on. Remarried. Who needed your old life when you had a new one? Better to leave behind the daughter who reminded him of his fi rst wife, the one who’d cheated and left him with a toddler to raise.
Leaving ran in her family, apparently. Her mom did it. Her dad did it. But Aunt Alice had been a constant from the time she was five years old. That was when Boneyard Key had become her home. When Aunt Alice had become her home.
Now Aunt Alice was gone too. Though when you lived in the most haunted small town in Florida it was normal to hope that she’d lingered. Normal to hope that Alice would understand how lonely Sophie felt, now that she was on her own. Maybe she would have wanted to stick around.
But she hadn’t.
This home was all Sophie had left. Well, that and the forty-odd years of crap that had accumulated in this two-bedroom condo. When Aunt Alice had fi rst passed, Sophie had held on to every scrap, not able to part with a single thing she’d touched. As time went on, her grip had relaxed, and she’d been able to clear things out. Clothes were donated fi rst, followed by most of her jewelry, then a few furniture pieces. Now the space was a cozy mismatch that was very much Sophie, but with enough reminders to keep Aunt Alice’s memory alive. She could feel her aunt’s love in the handmade quilt slung across the back of the sofa, the vinyl collection, and the plants that Sophie did her best to keep alive.
The fi nal frontier remained the master bedroom. Aunt Alice’s