Page 3 of Haunted Ever After

“No shit.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “What’s it like in there?”

“Um. Well, right now it’s filled with boxes since I haven’t unpacked yet. But otherwise it’s fine.”

“I mean, everything okay there? Since you’ve moved in?”

“Yes?” Her answer was more of a question. What was he getting at? “Is there a reason it wouldn’t be?”

“No weird noises? Anything like that?”

“Nothing except the wonky electric. What else would there…oh.” She bit back a sigh. “Is this because of the ghost thing that this town is all about? I told you, I’m not a tourist. You don’t have to do…” She waved a hand. “All that.”

He watched her for a second before nodding slowly. “Right. Anyway, give Buster a call.” He gestured at the card. “He’ll set you up right. And make sure you tell him you’re at the Hawkins House. I bet he’ll come running.”

“Okaaay.” She drew the word out slowly. There was something Nick wasn’t telling her about her house, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Anything that would make her life easier at this point was welcome. “Thanks,” she said instead.

“Anytime.” There was that crooked smile again. “Welcome to Boneyard Key.”

As Cassie pushed the heavy glass door open, she noticed three little neon ghosts escaping as steam from the neon coffee cup in the window. Yeah. He’d definitely been talking about the ghost thing.

But what did her house have to do with it?

Two

Living in a tourist town would be heaven on earth if it weren’t for all the damn tourists.

“Do you have cashew milk?”

Nick clenched his jaw so hard his molars ached, but he forced a cleansing breath through his nose before he answered. “We’ve got soy milk,” he said, his voice even. Almost pleasant. “We’ve got almond milk, oat milk, and regular old cow’s milk. That’s it.” That should be plenty, shouldn’t it? How many damn milks could one coffee shop offer? Any more and he’d have to rebrand as a dairy.

The woman across the counter wrinkled her nose and curled her lip, the only parts of her face visible behind the biggest pair of sunglasses Nick had ever seen. He ground down harder on his back teeth, waiting for her to decide already. He could have made three lattes in the time it took this woman to make up her mind.

She finally gave a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll have the almond milk, if that’s all you’ve got. Can you do an iced shaken espresso?”

This woman was really missing her Starbucks. Unfortunately for her, he was the closest thing to a Starbucks around here. And as proud as Nick was of this place, Hallowed Grounds was absolutely not a Starbucks. He didn’t know the first thing about shaking an espresso, but he was able to bargain her down to an iced latte with her precious almond milk.

“So tell me…” Big Sunglasses leaned over the counter while Nick ran her payment. Her tank top was low cut, and Nick wasn’t complaining about the view. “Is this town really haunted?”

“That’s what the websites say,” he answered cheerfully as he handed her back her card.

Of course it was; being haunted was what put Boneyard Key on the map. When you were a tourist town in Florida, you had to have something to set you apart, something to attract any tourist dollars left over from the theme parks. One of those travel magazines a few years back had called Boneyard Key the most haunted small town in Florida, which had definitely helped pick things up. The chamber of commerce across the street had commissioned this big-ass sign, and Sophie’s ghost tour had been sold out for months after that article had come out.

These days you couldn’t throw a rock in this town without hitting a T-shirt store or a souvenir shop selling all kinds of ghostly wares. Trucker hat, tie-dye sundress, shot glass—if you could slap a ghost on it, you could buy it in Boneyard Key.

Of course, it was different when you were a tourist. When you were just here for the weekend, you get the airbrushed T-shirt with a ghost on it and tell your friends you went to visit the spooky town on the Gulf. But you never quite take it seriously. You don’t believe.

But it was different when you lived here. As if on cue, Nick’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Of course. No matter how many times he’d added Elmer’s number to his contacts, each new text showed up as an unknown number. Sure, it had been a little weird at first, but you learned to roll with things like that around here. He’d been doing it all his life.

What did you do to the banana bread?

Nick frowned at the text. How did he know? Stupid question, he thought as he started tapping out his response. Elmer always knew.

Just put some cinnamon in it, no big deal.

Cinnamon doesn’t go with bananas, what were you thinking?

Sure it does. Nick rolled his eyes as he typed. It just wasn’t in your recipe. But last I checked, you don’t own this place anymore. Like that was going to stop Elmer from having an opinion. Nothing in the world could stop that—not even death.

The bell above the door chimed—thank God, a reprieve. Despite the bouncing dots indicating an incoming response, Nick locked his screen and shoved his phone back in his jeans pocket.

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