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This woman is driving me fucking mad.

And so is the parade of nauseatingly happy couples she keeps trotting through Bell’s Books, Bed & Breakfast.

First, it’s the Johnsons.

An adorable Fae couple celebrating their five-hundredth wedding anniversary this October.

Five hundred years.

Together.

On purpose.

They stay in Belinda’s honeymoon suite on the top floor, directly beneath the little ghost disco her nutty cleaning service creates in the attic.

Good news? No more ectoplasm dripping on my tomatoes.

Bad news? Donna Summers is blasting at two in the fucking morning.

Then come the Van Beverwycks, a pair of elderly Dutch Necromancers finally celebrating their engagement after fifty-six years together.

Fifty-six.

Apparently, they don’t like to rush things.

They’re adorable too.

It makes me want to gag.

Because I’m not a romantic guy.

Never have been.

Never had the chance, really.

Leeds Devils don't get the luxury of believing in ordinary romance. We grow up knowing there’s one person out there who can balance the darkness inside us.

Our promised.

Avail finds Stephanie. Tony finds Sofia. Max finds Penelope.

Me? I turn forty and get permanent fucking wings.

Life is funny that way.

Still, when old Mr. Van Beverwyck presents Belinda with a bouquet before they leave, kisses her cheek, and tells her she’s created a lovely place—I want to rip his arms off and beat him to death with them.

Which is unreasonable.

Mostly because he's approximately a hundred and twelve.

Also, because he's engaged.

And most importantly, because Belinda isn't mine.

Mine.

“No.”