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Author’s Note

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book, whilst being a fluffy, cosy fantasy romance with an HEA, does have its darker moments. There is reference to the past death of a parent by cancer and their cancer treatment. There is death of a pet off page, alluded to through a flashback—I pinky promise this bit has a happy ending, you’ll have to trust me. There is discussion of homophobia and suggestion of sexually explicit images being shared publicly. The central romantic relationship has overt dominant and submissive elements. I have tried to handle these themes with care, but I trust you all to know your own limits.

RRosemary was ten years old the first time she saw a ghost. She’d been sipping a cream soda in the cosy wallpapered kitchen of her grandmother’s house, the overhead fan struggling to create even a feeble breeze in the sticky Georgia heat. Her parents never let her have soda, so that’s how Rosemary knew, fingers tracing the strawberry pattern on the tablecloth, that the thing they’d all been dreading had finally happened: her grandmother had passed away.

Not that she quite understood what that meant in practice. Characters died in books all the time, but that didn’t count, because you could just start the book from scratch and they’d be alive again. In real life she supposed it would be different.

But then Rosemary’s grandmother walked into the kitchen. Rosemary looked up at her; she certainly didn’t look like she was dying. If anything, there was more colour in her cheeks, and her hair wasn’t parchment white anymore but a fiery red, just like Rosemary’s own. Even the wrinkles etched around her eyes appeared to have shallowed and smoothed.

She didn’t look like the ghosts in the stories Rosemary read, either—there were no white bedsheets in sight—but there was a softening in the air around her, a sort of glowing haze that enveloped her as she reached out a hand and ruffled Rosemary’s ruddy waves.

“Hey, honey,” Nana said.

“Are you a ghost?” Rosemary blurted out. “Or an angel?” She’d been taught about angels in Sunday school, but she read books about ghosts and monsters when no one was looking.

Her nana chuckled, looking down at herself.

“Well, I don’t have wings, so let’s say I’m a ghost. But listen, honey, I don’t have long before I go.”

“Go where?”

“Somewhere good and peaceful, I think. Do you want to do a little cooking before I go? Maybe we make your mama some of my strawberry jam to cheer her up.”

She pulled Rosemary out of her chair with arms much stronger than she remembered. Years—and many ghostly experiences—later, Rosemary would understand that this was because her grandmother had died only moments before.

Tying an apron around Rosemary, Nana instructed her to fetch some measuring bowls from the cupboards, and to grab a fresh punnet of strawberries from the fridge.

“These ones still have little bugs on them, that’s how you know they’re fresh.” Her grandmother pointed them out, then showed Rosemary how to properly wash and cut the strawberries.

They spent the next hour or so making a batch of her nana’s strawberry jam. The air in the kitchen grew sweet with sugar and the tanginess of the fruit, and Rosemary licked sweet strawberry juice off her fingers.

“Half sugar, half fruit, and then a little bit of lemon juice to

seal it all up,” her grandmother explained, leaning against the counter as Rosemary stirred the bubbling concoction.

“I’ve always loved this kitchen,” Nana said, running a hand on the wooden countertop. “I used to bake with your mama here all the time when she was as little as you.”

“I’m not that little.”

“Of course not, honey.” Her nana looked wistfully out of the window to the overgrown yard. “You see that tree? The short, stubby-looking one?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Every spring we’d get redwing blackbirds coming to visit, and they would spend all morning singing in that tree. You can tell they aren’t normal blackbirds because they have a badge of red and gold on their breasts. Such pretty birds. You tell your mama that’s where I want to be.”

Rosemary’s grandmother had been a bit of an amateur ornithologist in her time, a hobby which Rosemary’s mama thought was a little silly, but Rosemary secretly loved.

“Will we still be able to visit you?” Rosemary asked.

Her grandmother frowned.

“You can visit me at that tree, or at my grave, but I won’t be here, not like this.” She sighed.

“What is it, Nana?”

“Oh, I just realised this is the last time I get to see this view. Someone is going to need to water my rosebushes.”

Her nana pressed a feather-light kiss to her cheek. “I wish I could have stayed longer to see you grow up into a young woman, but you’re going to be fine, aren’t you?” She gave Rosemary a knowing look. “And listen, honey, I think it’s best if you don’t tell anyone about this.”

“About making jam?”

“No, you can tell them about the jam. But most people can’t

see ghosts, and some might not understand. Some of them might not believe you when you tell them I helped you. I don’t want you to get into any trouble, understand?”

Rosemary nodded and then asked, “Could you see ghosts too?”

“I could. That’s why I wanted to see you before I left. Not many people have this gift, so unless you tell a ghost you can see them, they won’t know. But lots of them have interesting stories, especially the really old ones. I got this jam recipe from an old pastry chef who lived over in Keller.” She grinned, and Rosemary grinned back.

Tilting their heads over the pot, they sniffed the almost buttery sweetness of the jam.

“One final touch to make it perfect,” her grandmother said, pulling a little brown glass jar out of a cupboard. “The trick to the perfect strawberry jam is a teaspoon of rosewater.”

The heady scent of roses wafted through the kitchen.

Rosemary felt it then, a swoop in the pit of her stomach followed by a soft absence. Despite the summer heat, the kitchen felt colder. Her nana was gone.

“Rosemary, what are you doing?” Her mother burst into the kitchen, hauling Rosemary off the stool she was standing on, switching off the gas. Her dad hovered in the doorway, aggressively swiping tears from his cheeks.

“What were you—Were you making jam?” Her mother looked at the pot and the pile of strawberry stems on the counter. She sniffed the air.

“Did you add rosewater to it?” She looked at her daughter, confusion and incredulity on her face.

“It was Nana’s secret recipe.”

At the mention of her mother, Rosemary’s mom crumpled and pulled her daughter to her.

“Sweetheart, I’m not angry about the jam. But there’s something I need to tell you, okay? Why don’t you come with me and we go sit on Nana’s garden swing for a bit?”

As they left the kitchen, Rosemary stole a glance over her shoulder at the empty kitchen behind her, the steam rising from the cooling pot of jam, and knew she had just inherited a strange, but exciting, secret.

The ghost Rosemary was watching now was much younger than her grandmother’s ghost had been, nineteen years ago. Unlike her grandmother’s ghost, this one was greying at the edges and had a semitranslucence to it. She’d clearly been around for a while.

She was wearing a chunky knit cardigan that looked distinctly ’80s to Rosemary’s eye, though she couldn’t be sure, and was reading a bodice-ripping Regency romance over the shoulder of another customer in the bookstore. Most ghosts had the ability to hold physical objects but tried to avoid spooking the living folks around them (although not always). Accidentally revealing yourself could end up with ghost-hunting television shows asking you to knock three times if you were present, when all you wanted was to be left in peace.

Rosemary would bet that when the store closed, this ghost would be here flipping through books all night. As afterlives went, it was a pretty sweet deal.

“I think we’ll open up the floor to questions now. Does anyone have anything they’d like to ask our terrifying trio here?” Max, bookseller extraordinaire and today’s panel moderator, asked the crowd seated in the horror section of Tickled Ink bookstore, snapping Rosemary back to reality. She sucked in a breath, quietly enough that it wouldn’t be picked up by the mi-

crophone. She reminded herself that she’d prepared for this; she knew there would be a Q&A. Rosemary rattled through her mental Rolodex of possible questions—she would be fine. The rational part of her brain knew that she was just waiting for her anxiety to catch up. Another breath, slower exhale. She glanced at the clock. Probably less than ten minutes to go of the event, maybe nine. She could do nine minutes.

Max had asked Rosemary to be on the panel to—in their own words—“bring the conversation into the twenty-first century,” and she didn’t blame them.

Tickled Ink was her local indie bookstore in Brooklyn and was perhaps Rosemary’s favourite place on earth, aside from her writing beanbag chair. Thanks to Max, both the horror and romance sections—the two most important sections of a bookstore, if you asked Rosemary—were exceptionally well curated.

Her co-panellists, James Butler and David Marsh—two big names in the horror genre—had books coming out this month, only a few weeks from Halloween, and were adamant about doing an event at the popular bookstore. Max had only agreed to host if Rosemary would be on the panel, too, convinced that she would bring in new and returning customers, compared to James and David, whose audiences mostly consisted of middle-aged white men. The women in their books had a tendency to walk “boobily” down the stairs, or to fall into bodies of water whilst wearing nothing but a sheer nightgown. Rosemary hadn’t been sure if she was up to the panel, but her friends Immy and Dina convinced her in the end.

“I’d like to ask you all a bit about your writing process: Do you write every day? Do you work towards a word count?” an audience member asked.

James cleared his throat. “I like to start the day with a run, it really clears the mind. Then I write from nine a.m. until

one p.m., before stopping for lunch. On a good day I’ll write six thousand words.” He smiled smugly.

“For me, it’s a little different. As a lot of you know, I don’t follow a strict routine.” David chuckled, running a hand through his thinning grey hair. “I’m more of an ideas man, so I wait until the ideas come to me and then I write like crazy until it’s all on the page. I don’t really go in for research beforehand.”

Rosemary knew he didn’t go in for research, as she’d read an early draft of his new book when his editor had asked her to provide a blurb. If you’re going to write a horror set during the 1870s buffalo massacre, you would think that you’d want to read up on the history of the period instead of just watching a few Civil War–era films. She hadn’t been able to provide any kind of quote that a publisher would have wanted to promote the book with.

Finally, it came to Rosemary’s turn to answer. Seven minutes or less. She could do this.

“Since I mostly write historical horror, with the occasional step into aquatic horror . . .” A small whoop from a fan in the audience, waving a copy of Julia, the first novel she’d published, five years ago, a deep-sea horror based on the “Julia” sound recorded by the U.S. Navy in 1999.

“I need to do a lot of research to make sure I’m presenting the era in the most authentic way. Since most of my books deal with sensitive themes like racism, transphobia, and women’s hysteria, I like to find time to interview people who can help me make my characters as genuine as possible. Just last week, I had a phone call with a lovely academic archivist to discuss the strange obsession that the Victorians had with Egyptian mummies. One of the most fascinating things I learned from her was that they would have mummy unwrapping parties where they would place a mummified body on their dining room table and

unwrap it like it was some kind of party game. The facts can be incredibly messed up, but it makes for fantastic horror writing fodder.” She laughed, before realising that she was going down a tangent again, and had better get back to the point. “So I start my mornings with research, and then in the afternoon I’ll write, as I’m very lucky that all you lovely people read enough of my books that I’m able to do this full-time. So thank you.”

A few more questions were asked by the audience, and then a round of applause filled Rosemary’s ears as the panel drew to a close. She thanked James and David for the wonderful chat, though her heart wasn’t in it. They shook her hand but wouldn’t really meet her eyes. A younger version of herself might have been hurt, but twenty-nine-year-old Rosemary was well used to this kind of behaviour from a certain demographic of horror authors by now.

When Rosemary had arrived earlier to sign stock for Max, she’d overheard James and David—who definitely hadn’t seen her come into the back room of the store—talking about her movie deal.

“It’s the same studio that optioned mine, but two guesses why they went with hers.” David laughed, and through the stacks of books, Rosemary saw him cupping invisible breasts.

Oh sure, her fantastic tits were the reason she got a movie deal, and it had nothing to do with the fact that When the Devil Takes Hold, her Victorian gothic horror, was one of the bestselling horror books of the last decade.

“You never know,” James added, “she might have even found a different way of persuading the studio execs to take on the project.”

Rosemary had rolled her eyes into the back of her skull. These supposedly grown-ass men were skulking in a corner, sniggering about how she’d apparently sold her enormously tit-

ted body in exchange for a movie deal. Either way, they’d had their comeuppance later on when the vast majority of fans had shown up with only copies of Rosemary’s books to sign.

Now that the event was over, Rosemary looked around to see if she could spot the ghost again. But they’d disappeared, probably to a quieter corner of the store so they could read in peace. Rosemary was tempted to venture into the back aisles of the shop to chat with the ghost—especially since she hadn’t spotted them at Tickled Ink before—but she reminded herself that normal people didn’t go around talking to invisible beings in public.

Max strode over, beaming from ear to ear.

“You were fucking brilliant, as expected.” They laughed, pulling her into a bear hug that lifted Rosemary’s feet off the ground.

“Do you want to wait around, we could go out for a drink after I close?” they asked, looking hopeful. Max and Rosemary had gone out for dinner a few weeks ago. Rosemary hadn’t realised it was a date until Max had shown up with a bouquet of flowers for her.

Not that she minded; Max was handsome in a Californian surfer kind of way, all golden-bronzed skin and sun-kissed hair. And they made Rosemary laugh. They’d kissed at the end of the date, but Rosemary realised that with her upcoming trip, she wasn’t really in the right place to start a relationship. She found Max attractive, but there’d been something missing in their kiss, a kind of vital spark. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that kept you up at night, even if she wished it was.

“I wish I could, but my flight to London is tomorrow, and I still need to pack my book case.”

“Your bookcase?”

“Like my book suitcase, where I put all my books.”

“You’re singlehandedly keeping eBooks from taking over, I hope you know that. But hey, maybe we get dinner when you’re back?” They smiled, and it was so heartachingly kind that Rosemary wished she felt differently.

“Of course, I would love to,” she replied. Max looked like they had been about to say something else, but then the bell at the till rang, and they both looked over, noticing the queue of readers eagerly waiting to purchase signed copies.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Max said. “I’ll see you when you’re back from England. Have a lovely time, and don’t murder the actors.” They grinned wickedly before leaving.

Ah, yes, the actors. One actor in particular. The actor that had been a bane of Rosemary’s existence since she’d found out that he was going to be cast in her book-to-movie adaptation all those months ago. Hollywood heartthrob and, according to one very viral tweet, a certified daddy. Ellis Finch.

When Rosemary found out he’d been cast as Alfred Parlow, the leading man in her movie, she’d been furious. Sure, she’d heard of Ellis Finch before, and had been assured by her film agent that he was the shiniest of Hollywood actors, but he looked nothing like her character. Alfred was a feeble Victorian gentleman—tidy, skinny, timid—and Google Images showed Ellis was instead tall and broadly built in a way that said he was muscular without being “gym-ripped.” He was in his early forties, with a rakish grin and grey-blue eyes that pierced Rosemary through the phone screen. In some photos he was clean-shaven, with an offensively chiselled jawline, in others he sported a grey-tinged five-o’clock shadow. His dark brown hair curled a little at the ends, and appeared to be greying at the temples. According to his Wikipedia page, he was born in Scotland and had lived in the UK for most of his life. Rosemary wondered if he had an accent.

Quite a few of the photos online were paparazzi shots of him; sometimes at a café or a bookstore—and seeing him carrying a tall pile of books, shirt rolled up to display his muscular forearms, hadn’t elicited any strange feelings in Rosemary. None at all.

In fact, it made her stomach drop with what was definitely just acute dislike. And not to mention the photos of him parading his latest girlfriends down the red carpet, a whole host of gorgeous, tanned models with dazzlingly white teeth. Though she had to admit those all seemed to be from around a decade ago, and there was nothing about him dating anyone more recently. She had reassured herself, when she’d googled “Ellis Finch girlfriend recent” that it was only part of her research into him as a professional.

Regardless, he wasn’t famous for period dramas, although he’d been in one years ago. From the list of movies Ellis had starred in, it was clear he was better suited to action-packed blockbusters.

The frustrating thing was, when she looked at his face, she could almost understand the casting choice. He had clearly mastered a roguish expression that would have been perfect if he were cast as Wickham in a Pride and Prejudice adaptation. Or maybe Willoughby. There was just something about him that would make historical women act all wanton and weak in the knees. Not her, though. When she’d first found out he’d been cast, Dina and Immy had to listen through a nearly hour-long rant about how terrible a casting choice he was. This was a man who was known for starring in films where the only female characters were one-dimensional love interests, the cars were fast, the explosions huge (but never actually killed the hero), and don’t even ask about the plot, because there wasn’t one. That’s what Ellis Finch was good at, and she wished he had

stayed in his lane. Once, after one too many room-temperature white wines at a book event, Rosemary had emailed her film agent to present the case for why Ellis should be pulled from the casting. She’d received a kind, but firm, no. Ellis was going to be her Alfred.

The fact of the matter was that he was just completely wrong for the part and nothing could change her mind.

Rosemary unlocked the door to her building and pulled a small glass vial of salt from her pocket. There was a ghost she occasionally saw drifting in and out of the apartment opposite hers. He grumbled whenever someone walked past him, and once or twice Rosemary had seen him stick out a leg as if to trip someone. Thankfully, he was faded enough to no longer be corporeal. Rosemary didn’t see him as she entered her apartment, but just before she closed the door she sprinkled a trail of salt across her threshold, just to ensure he wouldn’t be able to come in.

Salt, lavender, rosemary, sage. All had the ability to either soothe or ward off ghosts. In her research for a previous folk horror, Rosemary had spoken to an Indigenous North American park ranger who swore by obsidian, too. That’s why she lined all her clothes drawers with little bundles of dried herbs, often gifted to her by her friend Dina, who was a kitchen witch. They made her clothes smell lovely and had the added benefit of warding off any unwelcome spirits. Most of the ghosts Rosemary had seen weren’t malevolent, though; they were often people who had passed away before their time, and who wanted to linger in this world, by their loved ones’ sides, a little while longer.

Rosemary surveyed her empty apartment. Up until yester-

day, it had been full of moving boxes that she’d taken to a storage locker until she found a new place. It hadn’t originally been her plan to move out during the shooting period for the film, but the stars had aligned when she realised her lease was up within a week of the shoot starting. Good real estate was hard to come by in Brooklyn, and even a grumpy-old-man ghost wasn’t enough to make someone move out of an apartment with a built-in washer-dryer and floor-to-ceiling windows. But Rosemary was heading to England, and would stay there until the shoot ended in a few months’ time. She couldn’t afford to pay rent in an apartment she wasn’t using.

It was strange, seeing the empty walls with their slightly bleached rectangles where her vintage horror movie posters had hung. Her entire life in New York had been condensed down to fifteen medium boxes and a ten-square-foot storage locker. She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry.

As she changed into the pair of comfy sweats lying on top of her open suitcase, Rosemary waited for the sadness to kick in. She was supposed to be upset about leaving New York, wasn’t she? She’d built a life here over the last three years. Made friends here, wrote three novels here. She’d come here because New York was the place where all writers made themselves, or so she had believed. There were people she’d miss, she was sure of that, and moments she would recall with fondness. But the city had also suffocated her. Some days she felt boxed in, only able to breathe when she went for a walk in the park to catch a view of the sky that wasn’t bitten through by skyscrapers. The sky where she grew up was so wide it could swallow you up, and she missed that feeling of being small, but not lonely.

A thought tickled the back of her mind: she didn’t have to find a new apartment when filming was over. She could find somewhere else, maybe somewhere with more nature, and do it

all again. Georgia didn’t feel like home anymore, even with Dad still living there. It hadn’t been home since her mom had died. Rosemary had tried with New York, she really had. She’d been desperate to make this place feel like home, but in all this time, it never quite had. Home, for Rosemary, was being with her friends. So how could she be at home when her friends were an ocean away?

Rosemary tucked herself into bed, pulling the blinds shut on what could be her last-ever New York night. She flipped open her laptop and forced herself to write a few paragraphs. Tonight, as it had been for the last few months, writing was like milking a pig. Her next book, a possession horror about a monk in a rural monastery where they lived by silent prayer, was due in two months, and Rosemary was way behind. She should have been reaching the final climax of the novel by now, but she was still trapped in the first third. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her agent or her editor, even when they sent her those gentle “just checking in” emails. She had always written a book in a year, that’s what they expected of her. Rosemary couldn’t let them down now.

Writing used to be fun, but now it was inextricable from stress. This book needed to be written, but the previous book was in copyedits, whilst the subsequent book needed to be researched and planned out. She felt like a conveyor belt, always churning out words, never stopping to breathe. Rosemary would think about breathing when this book was done.

Her phone buzzed.

On the screen the caller ID photo popped up of her, Immy, and Dina—her two closest friends, who also both happened to live an ungodly distance away from her, all the way in England. Rosemary answered the group call.

“You’re both up late,” she said, by way of hello.

“It’s the twins, they’re struggling to sleep through the night, and it’s my turn to check on them.” Immy yawned. Immy had taken to motherhood like a duck to water, and Rosemary was glad she had someone like her husband, Eric, who very much viewed parenting as a fifty-fifty experience, and who also sent Immy off for a spa day every month.

“And it’s a full moon tonight, so I’m waiting until midnight and then I’m going to do some moonbathing on the balcony,” Dina said. In the background Rosemary could hear Dina’s fiancé Scott call out hopefully, “Will the moonbathing be naked?” followed by Dina’s chuckling laughter. God, she missed her friends, she hadn’t been back to see them since the twins were born nearly a year ago. She kept meaning to go back to England but between book tours and signings and working on her new draft, the best part of a year had flown past. She couldn’t wait to see them soon.

“Anyway, we wanted to check on you.” Dina added, “How did the event go?”

“It was good, the other guys were exactly as expect—”

“—like shrivelled-up balls of misogyny?” Immy muttered.

“Screw them, you’re more successful than both combined anyway. Where’s their movie?” Dina added.

“Thanks for the pep talk, guys, but I’m okay, really. I’ve finished saying my goodbyes to this old apartment, and I’m psyching myself up to meet he who shall remain nameless.”

“Ah, yes, the horrible and insanely hot actor. You know I think I’ve read a fanfic that starts like this,” Immy said.

“Well, this isn’t one of your fics, I’m not going to swoon the moment I see him,” Rosemary said, picking at a piece of lint and avoiding eye contact even through the screen.

“Uh-huh.”

“Sure.”

“You know, it sounds like you two are trying to matchmake me. May I remind you that I’m not interested in that kind of thing. Besides, I don’t think I’m Mr. Action Star’s type.”

Immy groaned. “But I’m so good at matchmaking! Look what happened last time.”

Dina cackled, her engagement ring sparkling as she ran a hand through her curls.

“I’ll tell you what,” Immy persisted, “watch this clip—I’m gonna share it in the chat—and if you honestly tell me you don’t think he’s hot, then I’ll shut my mouth and this is the last you’ll hear from me about it. Deal?”

“Deal,” Rosemary replied. How hard could this be?

Her phone beeped, and a moment later she had the video loaded on her screen, sharing it between the three of them. Even with their faces tiny in the corner of the screen, she still felt the joy you can only get from friends, seeping into her limbs, bubbling happily inside her.

“Ooh, I’ve seen this clip already,” Dina squeaked, and Scott popped his head into the call and waved hello. “Is this the video where he kisses the living daylights out of that dairymaid?” He chuckled.

“The very one.” Dina smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple before Scott ducked out of view again.

“You two make me all soppy.” Immy yawned.

Rosemary rolled her eyes and pressed Play.

This clip was from that one period drama he’d been in, made a few years ago by the looks of it. Rosemary had never watched it, too scared to hate how he portrayed the character. The clip had been shared online millions of times, titled “Ellis Finch Best Movie Kisses Part 1.”

“How many parts are there?” Rosemary asked, worried.

“At least ten.” Immy grinned.

The clip was cut in such a way that most of the dialogue was cut out.

It began with Ellis Finch, complete with button-down billowing shirt that hinted at the packed muscle and dark hair beneath, striding boldly across a sunlit meadow. Wrapping a firm, tanned arm around the heroine’s waist, he drags her close. Rosemary thought he would kiss her immediately, but that would clearly be too rudimentary for Ellis Finch, or rather, his character. Instead, he tucks a loose curl behind her ear, his thumb caressing her eyebrow, her cheek, her lips, before his hand strokes down to her neck and finally—finally—he kisses her. Kisses her like he is a man starved of all touch; like this is the final kiss before an execution (she hadn’t seen the film, so perhaps that was the case); like he’d never known love until he held her.

Heat shot through Rosemary and settled deep in her belly as she watched the clip, transfixed. She was acutely aware of every minute movement of the kiss, of Ellis’s rough grip around the dairymaid’s throat—not aggressive, but carnal in a way that was possessive yet gentle. It made her shiver. For a split second she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to be on the receiving end of a kiss like that. To have those hands pressed gently around her throat. To be faced with so much . . . need.

“Well, what do you think?” Immy asked, interrupting the thought.

Rosemary had to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry.

“She can’t even answer, so clearly she agrees with us.” Dina smirked.

“Fine, fine,” Rosemary stuttered. “I will admit he’s somewhat attractive, if you’re into that earthy, rugged sort of thing.”

“Earthy. I’ll take it.” Immy laughed, her laugh quickly transforming into a yawn. “I think I’m gonna try and rest now. Sleep while the babies are sleeping and all that.” She smiled.

They all said their “love yous” and “see you soons” and said goodbye. It would be barely any time before they were reunited in person anyway; Rosemary was going to stop by Dina’s magical London café once she had arrived and checked in—Dina had a bespelled herbal tea that would cure her jet lag.

As she lay in bed that night, her room emptied around her, suitcases finally packed, Rosemary was aware that this was one of those Big Life Moments™. Just like when she’d left Georgia to come to New York, telling herself that this was the place that successful authors lived, now she was leaving her life here to fly halfway across the world to help produce the movie adaptation of her own book. Moving to New York had been a childhood dream; she wanted to make it big in the book world or die trying. Rosemary had wanted to be in New York so badly that her high school yearbook had her down as “Most likely to move to the Big Apple.”

Getting a movie made of her book—and before she even hit thirty—was definitely one of those author pipe dreams. Similar to when she saw her book on the New York Times bestseller list; it didn’t feel real yet. Rosemary wondered when it would. When they read through the script at the studio perhaps? Or maybe not until they arrived on set at the old English mansion where they would be filming?

She flicked off her light and sank down into her lavenderscented sheets.

“Please let this movie be a success.” She whispered it aloud, to whomever or whatever might be listening. It wasn’t just the deadline for the novel that kept Rosemary up at night. So few books that had their film rights optioned were made into films; the studio was taking a chance on her work. What if horror fans hated it, or what if readers of her book thought it was a terrible adaptation and wrote her off? If Rosemary wanted the

chance to have more of her books made into movies to launch her career in Hollywood, then When the Devil Takes Hold would need to be a box office hit. And to do that, everything needed to be perfect. Which was precisely why Ellis Finch was haunting her. He wasn’t right for the part, and she was terrified that he was going to be the reason the movie would be a flop. The weight of it all was drowning her.

Even with all the anxiety-tinged thoughts bubbling through her, Rosemary fell asleep, her dreams filled with Ellis Finch’s face, the strength of his arms wrapped around her waist, pressing kisses to her neck, and lower.

2

2 “W ho the hell does this rosemary shaw think she is?” Ellis chafed liquid chalk between his hands,

“Who the hell does this Rosemary Shaw think she is?” Ellis chafed liquid chalk between his hands, phone on speaker, as he prepared for another set of deadlifts.

“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d take it personally,” his agent, Brody, said, his voice emanating from a speaker in the corner of Ellis’s home gym.

“It is personal. She told her agent she doesn’t think I’m the right choice for Alfred. Shouldn’t she have made that clearer during the original casting period?”

“It doesn’t matter, Ellis. Forget I told you.”

Ellis took out his frustration on the barbell, repped five conventionals, and went over to the mat to stretch. The mat that had been slobbered all over by Fig, now lying in the corner with her favourite carrot chew toy.

“You’re a menace,” he grumbled, patting her head as he lay down.

“What did you say?” Brody’s voice huffed.

“Not you. Why did you call me anyway, if it wasn’t to im-

part the fun new revelation that the screenwriter doesn’t approve of my casting?”

“You remember our deal, Ellis? It’s time for another round.”

“Ah, blackmail, how I’ve missed you,” Ellis said. “Who’s the unlucky lady?”

“Jenna Dunn, I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

“Can’t you think of someone more age appropriate?” Ellis groaned. He hated being made to look like the creepy middleaged man dating younger women.

“You owe me one, dude.” God, he hated it when Brody called him dude. “I had to turn down that offer for a role in Soldier of Justice: The Reckoning, which would have been much more lucrative, and you know it.”

Ellis rolled his eyes. There was no arguing with Brody when he started talking money; the man was oblivious to anything that didn’t come with a price tag. This was just the dynamic of their relationship. Brody got Ellis roles in action movies that he didn’t want but would star in anyway, and then when Ellis made a load of money from said action franchise, Brody would hold that success over his head for years.

Or, in this instance, because Ellis had chosen not to take the more lucrative role, Brody would use that to make Ellis do what he wanted. Perhaps Brody thought he was subtle with his machinations, but these days Ellis was just too tired to bother fighting back.

He knew the dirt Brody had on him; it was the very foundation for their relationship. Ellis was never going to fight back. And after all, Brody had been his agent since he was nineteen; the guy did know a thing or two about how to make a star—as he’d told Ellis on many occasions.

“Fine. I’ll go on a couple of dates, but that’s it.” Jenna Dunn

was one of Brody’s clients, too, younger than Ellis by at least twenty years. He didn’t like the way dating a much younger woman would make him look in the press, but it was better than the alternative. Brody would stoop to threats if he didn’t get his way; he had done it before—many times. At least it would all just be for the cameras.

“I want six weeks of dating, and you’ll pose for photo ops.”

“Make that four weeks, and you won’t make her spend the night at my place.”

“You sure? Jenna’s a very beautiful woman.”

“Brody, you’re fucking vile,” Ellis said, and hung up. A moment later his phone buzzed with a text from Brody: Table booked at Omno, 8 p.m. 4 weeks.

One day soon, Ellis would fire that piece of shit. He’d put up with his crap for far too long. At least, that’s what Ellis told himself. He knew he’d never do it. Brody knew too much about him, and Ellis knew that if Brody ever caught wind that Ellis was going to fire him, he’d send it—all of it—to the press. He wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

Ellis rinsed the chalk from his hands and slid open the door from the gym, taking the winding, cobblestoned path through his garden back to the house. He made a mental note that the herbs would need replanting, and he’d need to check on the greenhouse before he went away for filming. The barbeque stared mournfully at him from the corner by the shed, growing rust. Next summer he’d clean it. Next summer he’d finally have that barbeque with friends and family he’d promised himself.

Ellis wished he could spend longer in the garden, but there never seemed to be enough time to do the things he loved.

The October frost had settled in, coating the ground in crunching golden leaves. There was woodsmoke in the air and soon the clocks would be going back, with the evenings draw-

ing in faster. The porch light flickered on as he approached, Fig barrelling past him into the warm house. She snuffed, bounding onto the sofa and wriggling into the comfiest spot. When Fig had been little, she’d been full of bouncing energy, to the point that he would find himself on midnight walks just to make her tired enough for bed. But now she was four years old, she enjoyed the finer things in life: blankets, carrots, and chewing holes through all his socks. They still went on a run every morning, and Ellis took her to set with him whenever he could. In the evenings they would curl up on the sofa, fire crackling in the hearth, and watch a movie.

Sometimes, when Fig had fallen asleep on Ellis’s leg, he would think about how lucky he had been with both of his dogs. And then inevitably his mind would stray to Hank, and his chest would seize. He’d watch Fig sleeping peacefully and silently promise her that he wouldn’t let the same thing happen to her.

Ellis dragged himself into the shower, the steam soothing his aching muscles. The workout hadn’t smoothed out all his annoyance, though. What had he done to make that Rosemary Shaw—whom he hadn’t even met—dislike him enough to make a complaint to her agent? And what had she said? That he was the wrong casting choice for the role. She was just an author, not a professional casting director. Ellis didn’t allow himself more than ten minutes of silent shower grumbling time, as he had to change into something more respectable and fake-date-worthy than old chalk-covered gym clothes.

He knew why Brody had chosen Omno for the fake date—or rather, why Brody’s assistant Melissa had booked it on his behalf—it was well known as a social media spot. The food

was good enough, but people really went so they could be seen going there. And that was Brody’s entire ploy; he needed Ellis and Jenna to be seen together.

It wasn’t a new tactic, Ellis thought, as he stood in front of the mirror shaving. Every now and again, Brody would sign a new actress to his agency who had enough chops to be cast in a Hollywood blockbuster or two. Then he’d make Ellis go on a few dates with them, which was a surefire way of getting that actress the “Hollywood respectability” she needed to get whatever role Brody was putting her forwards for.

The women were always sweet, and Ellis always made sure they knew they could contact him if they ever needed an intermediary with Brody. He also made sure to put them in touch with other actresses he knew well, people who would do a better job at showing them the ropes of how to survive in this industry. It was difficult enough for him; he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like for a woman.

Ellis looked at himself in the mirror, mid-shave. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a few years ago, and his hair was beginning to grey at the temples, a fleck of silver here and there. He might have been a Hollywood heartthrob once, but those days were fleeting. Unused boxes of hair dye that Brody insisted on posting him were stacked under the bathroom sink, a sign of his agent’s determination to continue milking Ellis’s action hero career until he was too old to play the hero and came back as the villain.

“You’re an old man, Ellis Finch,” he said, and his reflection grimaced back.

The interior of Omno was all sleek mahogany wood panelling and avant-garde lighting, historical meets modern. It worked

9781529929638

DEL REY

Author’s Note

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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