Page 1 of Ghosted

Chapter One

“Ghosting, Ghosts, and Other Nonsense”

Tabitha

I was done with dating. Completely, irrevocably done.

Not the “I’ll take a break for a few months” kind of done. No, this was the type of done where you seriously consider deleting every dating app, buying a lifetime subscription to Netflix, and living vicariously through other people’s love lives on reality TV. The kind of done where the mere thought of putting on a cute dress and smiling through yet another awkward first date makes you want to crawl under a blanket and stay there for a solid week.

Yep, that’s where I was.

Sweetberry Hollow didn’t help much either. On the surface, the town looked like something out of a Hallmark movie—cobblestone streets, cozy little shops with hand-painted signs, trees that exploded into vibrant shades of orange and red every fall. It was the type of place where you’d expect to bump into your soulmate while sipping pumpkin spice lattes at the local café, sharing a cute “meet-cute” moment as perfect gold leaves danced in the crisp autumn air.

But anyone who actually lived here knew better. Sweetberry Hollow might have looked charming, just like any other quaint small town, but it had a weird side—a spooky side. The kind of weird where people actually believed the ghost stories they told…And they told them a lot! You couldn’t go anywhere in town without hearing about someone’s house being haunted or seeing someone post about a strange figure spotted at the edge of the woods. To the tourists, it was all fun and games. They came for the ghost tours and haunted house attractions, hoping for a thrill or a chill in the picturesque New England fall. But for those of us who lived here, the constant supernatural talk was rather exhausting.

That was part of the reason I’d openedThe Lantern & Lore, my little slice of sanity in this otherwise paranormal-obsessed town. The bookstore was cozy, tucked away in a quieter part of town, with creaky floorboards and shelves full of dusty old books on everything from gothic fiction to rare occult tomes. I didn’t believe in ghosts or curses or any of the other nonsense Sweetberry Hollow thrived on, but I did love the stories. And that’s what I sold—stories.

The bookstore had been my escape ever since I took it over from Marian Everett, a prickly old lady who had run the shop for decades before deciding to retire and move to Florida. The storehad been in rough shape back then, with a dwindling customer base and shelves that hadn’t seen new books in years. But I’d breathed new life into it, turning it into a cozy haven for book lovers and spooky-story enthusiasts alike. I’d leaned into the town’s supernatural reputation just enough to keep the tourists coming, without letting it overrun my life.

It was my safe space. The one place I had control over.

But evenThe Lantern & Lorecouldn’t protect me from the horrors of modern dating.

Enter Casper Thorne.

I’d met him onBump, the dating app I’d only downloaded after my best friend Daphne Moonflower had insisted the universe was trying to send me a sign. Daphne was all about signs and vibes and the universe aligning things just right. She worked atMoonlit Mystics, the metaphysical shop owned by her eccentric aunt Esme, and she was always pushing crystals, tarot cards, and essential oils on me like they were the solution to every problem. “You just need to trust the process, Tabitha,” she’d say, as if the universe really gave a damn about my love life.

So, against my better judgment, I downloadedBump. And that’s when I matched with Casper.

From the moment we started chatting, I felt something different. He wasn’t like the other guys I’d been on dates with—the ones who spent the entire time talking about themselves or worse, rambling on about Sweetberry Hollow’s paranormal “hotspots.” Casper was calm, cool, and grounded. His profile wasn’t flashy either. It was just a few pictures of him working—photographing old, abandoned buildings, the kind of places that had stories of their own hidden in the cracks of the walls. In one shot, he was laughing, sunlight streaming through a brokenwindow behind him, and I remember thinking that he looked real. Not fake. Not posing. Just… him.

Then there was the way he looked. Hot as hell.

Casper had this natural, rugged sexiness that didn’t seem intentional, which, of course, made it even hotter. His hair was a perfect match for Prince Charming’s shade of blonde, messy in that perfectly tousled way that looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but somehow it worked. And those green eyes? They could melt you with just a glance. He wasn’t the over-the-top gym-junkie type, but he was lean and strong in a way that made you notice. His work as a freelance travel photographer combined with his love of the outdoors had him constantly hiking and climbing, and his athleticism definitely showed.

We went on three dates. Three perfect dates.

The first one was atThe Bean Stalk Café, the most charming spot in Sweetberry Hollow. Jack and Rosalind Whittaker owned the place, and they’d turned it into something out of a fairytale—wooden beams wrapped in ivy, lanterns casting a soft glow, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the scent of Rosalind’s signature pastries. Jack loved to tell new customers that their “magic bean latte” was life-changing, and honestly, it kind of was. Casper seemed to love the place, and the conversation flowed so easily between us. We talked about everything—books, travel, art, life. It was one of those dates where you don’t realize how much time has passed until you notice the café is closing.

The second date was more adventurous. Casper took me to an old, abandoned church on the outskirts of town—one of those places you wouldn’t even know existed unless someone showed you. The building was half-hidden by overgrown trees, its stone walls crumbling, and its windows long shattered. Casper spent the afternoon photographing it, talking about how the lightfiltering through the cracks told its own story. I’m not usually one for artistic speeches, but the way he talked about it made sense. He even convinced me to allow him to take some shots of me posing under the stained-glass windows. He saw beauty in things that were falling apart, and that resonated with me.

By the time our third date rolled around, I was already hooked. We went out for dinner at a small Italian place just outside of Sweetberry Hollow. It was intimate, cozy, with dim lighting and candles flickering on the table. We talked about our dreams, our fears, our pasts. Casper told me about how he’d grown up moving from place to place, never really having a home, which was part of the reason he’d become a photographer—he liked capturing the stillness of things that had been abandoned. There was something deeply personal in the way he shared that with me, and I felt like we connected on a level I hadn’t experienced with anyone in a long time.

But it wasn’t just the emotional connection. The physical connection between us was just as electric.

After dinner, we ended up back at my apartment. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, we were tangled in the sheets. And God, it was good. Better than good—it was practically otherworldly.

I’m not one to get overly sentimental about sex, but with Casper, it was different. I’ve always been a bit self-conscious about my body. I’m short—petite, some might say—with curves that have a mind of their own. And my hair? Don’t even get me started. It’s long, messy, and a nondescript shade of brown that frizzes out of control, especially in the damp fall air. No matter how many products I use, it’s always a frizzy, tangled mess. But with Casper, all of that melted away. He looked at me like I was the most beautiful woman in the world, like he couldn’t get enough of me.

And in bed? Let’s just say it was the kind of sex that leaves you breathless. His hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of my body, and the way he touched me—like he knew exactly what I needed—it drove me wild. He was gentle when he needed to be and intense when it mattered most. It was like he could read my body, responding to every moan, every gasp, until we were both completely lost in each other.

Afterward, we lay there, his arm draped over me as if he never wanted to let go. He kissed my forehead, whispered my name—Tabitha—and in that moment, everything felt right. I thought I’d finally found something real.

And then…he ghosted me.

No texts. No calls. No explanation. Nothing. Just gone.

At first, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was traveling for work and didn’t have cell service. But as the hours turned into days, it became painfully clear—I’d been ghosted.

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