Chapter One
It’s been three months since Richard Lockwood kissed me on Christmas Day, and I still can’t stop thinking about it.
The problem is, technically, Richard didn’t kiss me. His lips didn’t touch mine. His hands didn’t cup my face with that gentle possessiveness that made my knees go weak. No, that honor went to his great-great-grandson Damien, whose body Richard had temporarily borrowed.
Possessed, my brain corrects. The word you’re looking for, Anna, is possessed.
I take a generous sip of Madelyn’s excellent pinot grigio and try to focus on what Katie is saying about her third graders’ science fair projects. Something about volcanoes and baking soda. But my mind keeps drifting back to that moment in the study, the mistletoe hanging overhead, and the way Damien’s hazel eyes had shifted into something deeper, something that burned with 130 years of restrained Victorian longing.
A woman’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Hello? Earth to Anna McGuffin?”
I blink to find all three of my friends—Madelyn, Katie, and Jennifer—staring at me with varying degrees of amusement and concern. We’re gathered in Madelyn Foster’s immaculate living room for our weekly Wednesday wine committee meeting—a tradition that started as a Richard Lockwood fan club (don’t ask) and has evolved into the closest thing I have to group therapy.
“Sorry.” I force a smile. “Long day.”
“You’ve been spacing out all evening,” Jennifer observes, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Is everything going all right with your book?”
My book. Duchess in Bloom. The historical romance I poured my heart and soul into writing. The one that Will Cunningham—bestselling author and my cousin Lucy’s friend—praised and sent to his agent. The one that’s now been rejected by every New York publisher, all with the same feedback: Great voice, compelling characters, but it needs to be sexier.
Apparently, Lady Eleanor’s slow-burning romance with her mysterious gardener isn’t steamy enough for today’s market. They want more bodice-ripping. More heaving bosoms. More … I don’t know, gratuitous descriptions of male appendages?
“The publishers want me to make it ‘sexier,’” I say, making air quotes with my fingers. “But I don’t want to change the story just to fit some formula. Will thinks I should consider self-publishing.”
“Self-publishing can be wonderful,” Katie says encouragingly. “One of the teachers at my school self-published a children’s book.”
“I just had this dream of landing a huge contract and seeing my books in all the big stores and airports. I know it sounds silly, but …” I shrug.
Madelyn reaches across the sofa to pat my hand. “It’s not silly. But dreams evolve.”
Jennifer nods. “All that can still happen. Just in a different way.”
“Speaking of dreams—” Madelyn’s brown bob swings as she turns to Katie with barely contained excitement. “I can’t believe the sneak peek party at Campbell House is finally this Friday. I’ve had the date circled on my calendar for weeks.”
Katie’s blue eyes light up. “Hank’s been working so hard to get everything ready in time. He was up until midnight last night putting the finishing touches on the guest rooms.”
Hank Miller—baker extraordinaire, owner of Bake My Day, mayor of Lockwood Cove, and Katie’s boyfriend (thanks to my matchmaking skills, if I do say so myself)—has been renovating Campbell House for months. The historic property, with its widow’s walk and secret passageway, has quite a history—some of it supernatural, though Katie and the girls don’t know that part.
“Hank must be thrilled his bed-and-breakfast is finally opening,” I say.
“He’s nervous,” Katie admits. “But excited too. Honestly, it’s a miracle the place is ready at all. You wouldn’t believe the trouble he’s had with contractors.”
“Trouble?” Jennifer asks.
Katie’s expression darkens. “First, there was Pete.”
We all nod soberly. Pete Reynolds, Campbell House’s original contractor and Hank’s good friend, was killed by a falling chandelier that had been tampered with by thieves.
“Then there was Mike—remember him? He was doing great work, but then he got offered a job managing a big development project in Naples and had to leave. Hank understood, but it set the timeline back by weeks.” Katie sighs. “After that, he went through two more contractors. One just stopped showing up—literally ghosted him. And the other turned out to be incompetent. Hank found him trying to install bathroom tiles with the wrong adhesive. It was a complete disaster.”
“Poor Hank,” Madelyn murmurs sympathetically. “It’s certainly been challenging.”
“But then Garrett Vance came along, and everything changed,” Katie continues. “He’s been an absolute lifesaver. He took over the project three months ago and handled everything. He brought in his own crew, got all the permits sorted out, and somehow managed to get Hank back on schedule. Hank says hiring Garrett was the best decision he ever made.”
“It sounds like this renovation was really stressful,” Jennifer says.
“And way over budget,” Katie admits. “There were weeks when Hank barely slept. But Garrett just has this way of making everything seem under control. He’s so charming and confident—whenever there was a problem, he’d just flash this reassuring smile and say, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled.’ Hank’s invited him to the party, of course. It’s only right, considering Garrett is the reason Campbell House is actually opening on time.”
“Who else will be there?” I ask.
“All our friends and everyone who worked on the renovation, plus all the suppliers and vendors who helped make it happen. Hank wants everyone who contributed to feel appreciated.”
I smile. “That’s so like Hank.”
“This party is a good opportunity to work out any kinks before he opens the inn to the public in two weeks,” Katie says. “Wait until you taste the menu he’s got planned.”
“I volunteer as tribute for taste-testing,” Madelyn says, raising her hand.
That’s when I notice movement in my peripheral vision. A shimmer near Madelyn’s elaborate cheese board solidifies into the form of a tall, impossibly handsome man in a perfectly tailored Victorian suit.
Richard.
My heart does that annoying flippy thing it always does when he materializes. He adjusts his cravat—a gesture I’ve come to recognize as his version of clearing his throat—and surveys the scene with his piercing green eyes. Daisy trots in behind him, her tail wagging as she makes a beeline for the cheese board. She can’t actually eat anything, but that never stops her from sniffing hopefully.
As my Realtor, Madelyn is the one who showed me Lockwood Manor when I arrived in town eight months ago, joking that it was “haunted.”
Turns out, it wasn’t a joke.
When I first encountered Richard Lockwood—the ghost of a nineteenth-century Scotland Yard detective with an aristocratic attitude and an allergy to modern appliances—he made it abundantly clear that I was an unwelcome intruder in his home. But Daisy, the ghost dog who comes with the manor? She welcomed me with a wagging tail. The adorable dachshund died in 1898, but she has all the zeal of a puppy, as well as being the best roommate a girl could ask for.
Richard, however, took more convincing. When a murder landed on my doorstep and I became the prime suspect, his detective skills couldn’t resist a good mystery. Somewhere between dodging a killer and arguing about what to watch on Netflix, we went from reluctant roommates to whatever we are now.
Partners in crime-solving.
Friends, maybe.
And after that kiss on Christmas Day, something considerably more complicated.
Usually, Richard avoids my Wednesday wine committee nights like the plague. “Insufferable hen party chatter,” he called it once, which earned him a week of the silent treatment. But tonight, for some reason, he’s decided to grace us with his ethereal presence. Not that anyone other than I can see or hear him.
I shoot him a questioning look, careful not to let my friends see.
He responds with a slight lift of one dark eyebrow that somehow conveys: I was bored. The manor is tedious without you.
Or maybe I’m just projecting. Three long months of dancing around the “kiss” have left me reading meaning into every little word and gesture.
“So what’s on the agenda for this special party?” Jennifer asks Katie.
“Hank’s planning to go all out,” Katie says, her face glowing with pride. “There’s going to be live music—a jazz quartet from Fort Myers—tons of yummy appetizers, and there’s even going to be a bar featuring craft cocktails named after local landmarks. Oh, and, of course, there will be a tour of the house so all the guests can see the renovations, including the widow’s walk. The view of the Gulf up there is incredible.”
“Sounds amazing,” Madelyn says.
“And that’s not all. Hank thought it would be fun to have Madame Corrine do readings for the guests. You know, fortune-telling, palm readings, that sort of thing.”
My spine stiffens. “Madame Corrine is back in town?”
Madame Corrine—Lockwood Cove’s self-appointed spiritual advisor—had spent years trying to summon Richard’s spirit through flickering candles, dramatic chanting, and enough purple velvet to upholster a small theater. She finally succeeded at last fall’s Founders Day celebration. She’d stood before the crowd, triumphantly announcing that Richard Lockwood himself was speaking through her.
Except it wasn’t Richard.
It was Alistair Hawthorne—Victorian serial killer, Richard’s mortal enemy, and all-around homicidal maniac. Unbeknownst to Madame Corrine, Hawthorne had been trapped in a cursed locket that she’d purchased. Once unleashed, he possessed her body to try to get his revenge on Richard.
The last time I saw her, she was being wheeled out of the old Lockwood Cove cemetery on a stretcher after the disastrous Ghost Trackers séance. A séance that ended with a nationally televised supernatural battle between Richard and Hawthorne. Most people attributed the chaos to “special effects,” but Madame Corrine knew better and, as a result, suffered a nervous breakdown.
“She got back last month,” Katie confirms. “Apparently, she’s been at some wellness retreat in Sedona. Lots of crystal healing and spiritual cleansing, from what I hear. She seems like her old self again. Actually, she’s friskier than ever. She’s already reopened her shop and has a six-week waiting list for private readings.”
I sneak a peek at Richard to see what he thinks of this latest development, but his expression gives nothing away.
“Sounds like fun,” I manage to say.
“I actually have a bit of news myself,” Jennifer says, and we turn to look at her.
“Don’t tell us your book is finished,” Madelyn teases. “You’ve only been working on it for what—six years now?”
As Lockwood Cove’s official historian, Jennifer has been working on a book about the town’s founding families that never seems to get finished, probably because she keeps getting distracted by new research about Richard Lockwood. Her usual serious expression has softened into something almost … dreamy?
“No. My book is not finished,” she says firmly. “I’ve been … corresponding with someone.”
Madelyn practically levitates off the sofa. “Corresponding? What does that mean? Is that a new code word for dating?”
“It’s a long-distance relationship, so we’ve been writing letters,” Jennifer says primly.
“Letters?” Katie’s eyes widen. “Actual paper letters? That’s so romantic!”
“No FaceTime? No texting?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Nope.” Jennifer shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “He travels all around the world for his work, and he’s usually in places with terrible Wi-Fi, so letters just work for us. There’s something special about holding a piece of paper someone took the time to write by hand, you know?”
Madelyn gets a sly look on her face. “We wouldn’t happen to know this mysterious correspondent, would we?”
Jennifer’s cheeks go pink. “Maybe.”
“It’s Damien Lockwood!” Katie squeals. “Right? I thought I saw something between you two at Anna’s Christmas party!”
Jennifer nods happily. “He’s back in the country, and he’s planning to come to Hank’s grand opening. He’s going to be my date for the party.”
The wine glass nearly slips from my fingers.
Damien Lockwood is coming back to Lockwood Cove? Richard’s great-great-grandson—the man whose body Richard used to kiss me. The man who walked around for days afterward with no memory of our encounter in the study. The man who’s now apparently wooing Jennifer through handwritten letters.
I’m not sure how I feel about this.
“Well, thank God,” Madelyn says, pressing a hand to her chest in mock relief. “Finally, your attention has shifted to a man with a pulse. I was starting to worry you’d die alone surrounded by Richard Lockwood memorabilia, muttering about his ‘piercing green eyes’ and ‘aristocratic bearing.’”
“I am not obsessed with Richard Lockwood,” Jennifer says hotly. “He’s a historically significant figure, and, as the town’s historian, it’s my job to—”
“You have a photo of his portrait on your office bookshelf,” Katie points out.
“That’s for reference.”
“You once described his moral conviction as ‘the kind of principled nobility that makes a woman go weak in the knees,’” Madelyn adds.
“That was taken out of context!”
“Jennifer, honey, there’s no context that makes that normal.” Madelyn’s eyes glitter with mischief. “I’m just glad you’re finally channeling all that romantic energy toward a Lockwood who can actually take you out to dinner.”
I take a very long sip of my wine to hide my expression. The irony of this conversation isn’t lost on me. Here’s Jennifer getting roasted for her harmless crush on a historical figure, while I’m the one who’s actually fallen for the man himself. The real Richard Lockwood. The one currently standing three feet away, looking equal parts mortified and smug about Jennifer’s apparent appreciation of his “principled nobility.”
Jennifer’s obsession is based on old portraits and historical records. Mine is based on late-night conversations, crime-solving adventures, and one very memorable kiss that technically involved his great-great-grandson’s body. I’m not sure which of us has the bigger problem.
“What about you, Madelyn?” I ask desperately, trying to steer the conversation away from Damien. “Are you bringing a date to the party?”
“Funny you should ask.” Madelyn’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Kirby is going to be my date.”
Katie nearly spills her wine. “Kirby Edwards? As in your ex-husband Kirby?”
“We’ve been … reconnecting.” Madelyn shrugs, but the gesture is too casual to be convincing. “I think we might be giving things another try.”
The room erupts in a flurry of questions. When did this happen? How long has it been going on? Is reconnecting what we think it means?
Madelyn fields them all with the practiced ease of a real estate agent deflecting questions about mold in the attic.
“Which brings us to you, Anna,” Katie says, turning to me with an expression that immediately sets off alarm bells in my head. It’s the same look she probably gives her third graders right before springing a pop quiz.
“What about me?”
“Madelyn is going with Kirby, Jennifer is bringing Damien, and, of course, I’ll be there with Hank. We can’t let you be the only one without a date,” Katie says firmly.
“I agree,” Madelyn says. Jennifer nods along for good measure.
“Oh, it’s no biggie. Really. I’m perfectly happy going solo. As a matter of fact, I prefer it.”
“That’s exactly what we were afraid you’d say,” Madelyn says.
“I have just the perfect man for you,” Katie says. “Jeremy Cartwright. He’s the new PE teacher at my school. He’s recently divorced, extremely fit—obviously, being a PE teacher—and I’ve already shown him your photo. He’s very interested.”
“You’ve shown him my photo?” I squeak.
The three of them exchange a glance that tells me my friends have been discussing this behind my back for a while now.
“We’ve been worried about you,” Madelyn says. “Ever since Christmas, you’ve seemed different. You spend all your time cooped up in that drafty old manor.”
“Except for Wednesday wine committee, you barely come out anymore,” Katie says gently. “And when you do …” She trails off, looking uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Henderson mentioned she saw you on one of your walks last week,” Jennifer says, picking up the thread. “She said you were having a very animated conversation.” She pauses delicately. “With no one.”
My stomach drops. “I was … on the phone.”
“She said you weren’t holding a phone.”
“The point is,” Katie says, rescuing me from having to explain why I was apparently talking to thin air like a crazy person, “you need to get out more. Meet new people. And Jeremy is a great start.” She pulls out her phone and swipes through her photos with the efficiency of someone who’s been planning this ambush for days. “Here.” She shoves her phone in my face. “Tell me you’re not interested in that.”
I look at the image of a man who is, objectively speaking, quite attractive. Sandy brown hair, warm smile. He’s standing on a hiking trail somewhere, giving the camera a thumbs-up with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever in human form.
“He looks nice,” I admit reluctantly.
Madelyn leans over to check out the photo. “Nice? He’s gorgeous! And check out those arms. The man clearly does not skip arm day at the gym.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Richard, his posture rigid with disapproval. He takes one glance at the phone screen and his expression sours like he’s just bitten into a lemon.
Daisy trots over to investigate what all the fuss is about. She stretches up on her stubby back legs to peer at the phone, her little nose twitching as if she could somehow sniff Jeremy through the screen. After a moment of careful consideration, she sneezes directly at his photo and turns away with her tail held high in what can only be described as dachshund disdain.
“The party is two days away,” I protest. “You can’t just spring a blind date on someone with two days’ notice. He’s probably already got plans.”
“Let’s find out.” Katie is already typing on her phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.
“Texting Jeremy.”
“Katie, no—”
“Katie, yes.” She doesn’t even look up from her screen. “I told him you’re excited to meet him.”
“I never said I was excited!”
“You said he looked nice. Coming from you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”
“This is a terrible idea,” I say desperately. “What if we have nothing in common? What if he’s boring? What if he only talks about … I don’t know … dodgeball strategies?”
“Then you’ll have a lovely evening learning about dodgeball,” Madelyn says cheerfully. “It’ll be good for you to expand your horizons.”
Katie’s phone pings. She looks at the screen, and her face breaks into a triumphant grin. “He says yes! He’s thrilled to meet you.” She shows me the text as proof—a string of enthusiastic messages ending in a thumbs-up emoji. “I’m going to text him your number.”
I open my mouth to protest further, but the determined expressions on all three of my friends’ faces tell me resistance is futile. I’ve been railroaded by the Wednesday wine committee, and there’s no escape.
“Fine. One date. But if he starts lecturing me about the importance of cardiovascular fitness, I’m faking a medical emergency.”
“That’s the spirit,” Katie says, grinning.
Richard has gone so still he might as well be a statue. The room temperature drops by several degrees—a sensation that only I can feel, it’s so slight.
I’ve been seeing ghosts ever since I was a little girl, and, normally, my advanced radar system—or my “ghost-dar,” as I like to call it—gives me a heads-up whenever a ghost is around by dropping the temperature and giving me a dry mouth. But Richard leaned early on in our relationship to reroute his energy so I don’t feel those things in his presence. Despite the fact that it allows him to sneak up on me, it’s actually pretty considerate of him, since constant dry mouth would have me chugging water like a camel preparing for a desert crossing.
The fact that I’m feeling the temperature drop now tells me something important: Richard is experiencing some serious emotion. When he’s rattled or upset, his usual careful control slips and his presence leaks through my defenses like cold air seeping under a door. Currently, his green eyes are blazing with an emotion I can’t quite name—but, if looks could kill, Jeremy Cartwright would already be a dead man.
WANT TO KEEP READING? Ghosts Don’t RSVP will be released in ebook/print/Kindle Unlimited on February 12 and is available for Pre-Order HERE!
