When I rented a dirt-cheap apartment in Maplewood Grove, I figured the catch would be a leaky ceiling or weird neighbors.
I did not expect the closet ghost. Or that he’d be a flirty, sharp-tongued 1920s playboy with opinions about my wardrobe and my nonexistent love life.
Now I’m stuck sharing square footage with a ghost who won’t stop making snide comments, rearranging my books, and accidentally helping me write better romance novels.
Trying to evict him? Useless.
Trying not to like him? Even worse.
Turns out, the biggest plot twist in my happily-ever-after… might already be dead.
