Page 10 of With All My Haunted Heart

“And?” God, there are so many ways I could end that sentence.

And I spent the first twenty minutes touring the house distracted by her muscular shoulders and forearms. And her smile felt like staring at the sun. And I wondered—for a fraction of a second before I got ahold of myself—what her hair would feel like wrapped around my fingers.

And I feel like I’m being replaced, even though I know that’s ridiculous.

“She didn’t want me to clear the house of ghosts,” I say at last, landing on the true root of the problem. Or, at least, the part that isn’t painfully embarrassing. “She wanted me to haunt it.”

“Huh.” Dea makes a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat before setting the coffee on her desk. She wakes up the computer, her attention fixed on the screen, fingers flying across the keyboard.

I wait, silent seconds ticking by until impatience gets the better of me. “That’s all you have to say? Did you hear me? She wants me to fill their business with restless spirits.”

Dea doesn’t look up from the computer screen. “Did she specifically request restless ones?”

“Well…no.” I sink into the chair opposite her. “But it’s not a good idea to have any ghosts wandering around a business like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” I find myself sputtering indignantly, which is not how I thought this conversation would go. “There are so many reasons! The liability of it all, for one thing. I don’t think our insurance would cover us if instead of clearing houses I haunted one. What if someone got possessed? What if a ghost knocks shit off a shelf and injures a guest? Plus, there’s the whole consent piece. I can’t force someone to work without pay—even if they’re dead.”

“Huh,” she says again, giving me nothing to go on.

“Come on, Dea. You know I’m right. You only managed to live with a ghost for two weeks before Xander had me get rid of her for you.”

Dea shudders. “She kept showing up in the mirror behind me when I was putting on my makeup! It was creepy.”

“Exactly!”

“This is different, though,” Dea says, still not looking at me as she types away on her computer. “I didn’t ask to live with a ghost. The people who choose to stay at this B&B will go in knowing it’s haunted. It’ll be their choice.”

I groan. Dea has never been much of a people pleaser—she’s happy to tell me when my ideas are terrible—but I find myself frustrated she’s not agreeing with me now. “I don’t even know if it’s magically possible.”

“Yeah, but you’d be able to figure it out. That sounds like it’s right up your alley.”

“Deanna.”

“What?” She finally gives up on whatever she was doing on the computer and studies me. I’m not sure what she sees in my expression, but it has her leaning back and blowing out a breath. She twists her lips into an inscrutable expression, the exaggerated movement drawing my attention to today’s color choice: a stunning shade of plum. “Is this one of those times where you need me to stop being reasonable and agree with you?”

I scowl. “I am being reasonable.”

She rolls her eyes and says in a bored monotone, “Yes, you are super reasonable, and Xander’s best friend is a big dummy who doesn’t know anything about magic. Her business plan is doomed to fail, and you’re smart for not getting involved.”

“I’m going to ignore how patronizing that is and say thank you.” I’m also going to ignore Dea’s implication that I’m not Xander’s best friend and all the twisty feelings it has swirling in my stomach. I’ve already lost my entire family, including my biological sister. I can’t lose the man who’s become like a brother to me.

Her plum-colored lips twist into a smirk. “You’re welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, some of us have work to do.”

“I have work, too,” I insist, though I know she’s teasing. She waves me away, and I slip back into my office. I don’t have any specific client appointments today, but I have plenty to do. There’s the creativity spell I was working on this weekend. I could tinker with that. Plus, I’ve got a full-day client on Thursday.

There’s a new art gallery opening on the east side of Windsfell, and the owner signed up for our signature New Business Package, the first one we’ve sold in over a year. I’ll be busy all day casting anti-theft sigils and weaving attraction spells to draw in the right clientele. I even put together a custom intuition series for the owner to help him select which artists to display. He also requested that I leave behind the most beautiful crystals I can get to continue powering the sigils once I’m gone. I called in nearly every favor I had to rush order high-end cuts of quartz and labradorite.

I could spend the day double-checking everything for Thursday, but when I settle in my desk chair, I can’t sink into any one project. I bounce from task to task, never finishing anything. I waste away the morning, a restless feeling that I can’t stand sending me to my phone, where I scroll aimlessly. Well, not aimlessly exactly. I find myself hate-scrolling C3’s website. It’s full of gorgeous shots of crystals and strong hands grinding herbs and a smiling woman with one half of her head shaved, brown curls spilling down the other side to brush her shoulder. She’s in another photo, farther down, handcrafting spell candles that she claims will provide “abundance, self-love, and protection.”

The woman in the photos—Teagan Keller—owns the shop. I met her precisely once, when the place first opened twelve months ago. She was friendly, excited to meet another entrepreneurial witch, and she even asked to take me out for coffee to pick my brain. We never got around to meeting again. And then, within a few months, Deanna clocked the subtle decline in our business.

Now that decline isn’t subtle at all.

“Fuck.” Deanna’s voice startles me into dropping my phone, and when I look up, she’s at her computer, letting lose an impressive string of profanities.

I slip my phone into my pocket and hurry to her desk. “What is it? What happened?”