Page 45 of With All My Haunted Heart

Would Be Nice If

Nurturing / good with kids

Varied areas of expertise / interests (appeal to different types of guests)

Good sense of humor

“This is…surprisingly realistic. Especially if you’re willing to focus on the parts that are nonnegotiable and get flexible with the rest.”

“I want to be offended by your surprise,” Elle says, tracing her finger around the rim of her coffee cup, “but I suppose I deserve that. Our last outing was less than ideal, huh?”

“Yeah, I think ‘less than ideal’ sounds about right. But!” I shift in my chair to face her, the heady excitement of a solution coming together rising up inside me. It’s the same feeling that comes right before a big breakthrough, and it warms through my chest. “I already know where we can start. I talked Laney into hanging out to wait for us. I think they’d be a great fit.”

The way Elle holds my gaze feels like an undressing. Like she’s searching for something, peeling back every layer. “Laney was the one at the baseball field? But they don’t like kids.”

“They said they were awkward around kids. I think they can handle the occasional young guest.”

“But—”

“Come on, Ellie.” I reach for her hands, ignoring the tightening in my chest at the contact. “The list says the ghosts need to be appropriate. Laney will be great, and they don’t have to stay here forever.”

She stares at our joined hands. Bites at her lower lip. “Ellie, huh?”

Heat flushes into my cheeks, and I pull my hands back. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It won’t happen again.” I shovel another spoon of oatmeal into my stupid mouth.

“No, it’s…I like it, coming from you.” Elle reaches for her coffee, and I’m transfixed as she brings the cup to her lips, her words warming me as surely as her coffee warms her. That has to be flirting. Right? Elle swallows, the delicate line of her neck flexing, and then she sets the cup back on the table. “Fine. We can start with Laney.”

The doorbell rings, the chimes echoing through the home. I swallow the last bite of oatmeal. “Expecting someone?”

Elle shakes her head and stands. “Not that I know of.”

“I’ve got it!” Xander calls from upstairs, and by the time Elle and I make it to the hallway, he’s pulling open the door. His back straightens when he sees who’s on the other side. “Sloane,” he says, surprise laced through the name. He recovers quickly and motions for their biggest investor to come in. “What brings you out here this morning?”

A heavy weight of magic follows Sloane McKinley into Midnight Manor. They carry themselves with an air of importance that immediately sets me on edge. Not in a they’re an asshole way, though. I’ve done more research on Sloane since I learned they were the primary investor here, and by all accounts, the nonbinary witch is well-liked outside of traditionalist circles and has a warm reputation.

It’s not that Sloane is power hungry or one of those rich people who look down on the rest of us. No, the problem is me. There’s no way I could ever measure up to someone that self-assured. Even the way they dress has I know exactly who the fuck I am written all over it.

Sloane is a late-forties white person with the coolest salt-and-pepper hair, the top curling down past the shell of their ear with the sides buzzed into a long fade. They’re taller than me, dressed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit, and they take in the entryway of Midnight Manor, appraising every inch of the place.

Finally, Elle steps past me and smiles up at Sloane. “What a wonderful surprise, Mx. McKinley. What can Alex and I do for you?”

“I was in town and thought it prudent to check on your progress.” Their voice is husky and low, but it fills the space. Sloane tips their head to the side and closes their eyes. A wave of magical energy passes through me, and their brow knits. “It seems you’re behind schedule, Miss Thompson.”

From my place behind Elle, I see the flush of red work up the back of her neck. “Schedule? We didn’t—”

“There aren’t any spirits on the property yet,” Sloane interrupts, though not unkindly. “With only a few weeks until the opening, I expected there to be a few ghosts in residence.”

“Oh. Well. Um.” Elle trips over her words, and it’s so unlike her that I find myself stepping forward.

“That’s my fault,” I say, coming to stand beside Elle and Xander.

Sloane assesses me, taking in my black joggers, white scoop neck T-shirt, and plaid button-down. “And you are?”

“Pippa Ainsley. I’m the witch they hired to haunt the property.” I pause, but Sloane doesn’t say anything. “I found a way to bring ghosts here, but I was unable to work most of last week after an injury. I’m better now, and we should have spirits in the home within the next day or two. We already have a lead on a spirit who could be a good fit for the manor.”

“A good fit?”

I glance between Xander and Elle, who both stare back at me with unreadable expressions. But I know how to handle witches like Sloane McKinley. Important witches. Powerful, influential, wealthy witches. My upbringing under Nanette Erikson and the years I worked at NACOW made sure of that. “It’s my understanding that your retreats focus on helping participants connect with the ghosts on the property. Elle thought we should provide spirits who will make interesting conversationalists for those successful at contacting them.”