The Ghost and the Graveyard
by Genevieve Jack
Left destitute by an unscrupulous ex-boyfriend, Grateful Knight takes her father up on his offer to live rent-free in a house he hasn't been able to sell. Desperate to make a new start, Grateful tries to overlook the property’s less desirable features, like the graveyard that stretches to her back door. On the bright side, the unbelievably gorgeous cemetery caretaker, Rick, is dead set on helping her feel at home. She vows to take things slow, considering her recent disastrous relationship, but is baffled when she literally can’t keep her hands off of him.
When things in Grateful’s house start moving on their own, another man enters her life—a sexy ghost with a dark secret. Magical forces are at work in the tiny town of Red Grove and they're converging on Grateful. Solving this ghostly mystery won’t be easy and with the caretaker becoming increasingly jealous of her spectral relationship, Grateful will be forced to choose between the ghost and the graveyard.
I was thinking he belonged in a museum, a chiseled-by-the-gods man museum, when my brain was hijacked. I forgot about the road. I forgot where I was going. And a fantasy hit me so fast and hard, it could’ve been a memory.
We were in the shower. I was behind him, my arms wrapped around his torso. I rubbed lather circles down his chest, over his rock-hard abs, and lower. In my daydream, he moaned my name, and I was considering how to move myself around him without breaking the rhythm. The scene was so vivid, the lavender scent of soap filled the cab of my Jeep.
What snapped me out of it was a barrage of pebbles hitting the undercarriage. I slammed on the brakes, sending my vehicle into a reckless skid toward the edge of a stone bridge straight out of one of those Thomas Kinkade prints. Whether it was ace driving skills, gravity, or sheer dumb luck, I stalled at the precipice, all white-knuckles and shivering limbs. I suppressed a lingering fear of plummeting to my doom.
"Hey, are you okay?" the man called. He’d dropped his shovel and was heading toward me. His dark eyes narrowed in concern.
No way was I explaining what just happened. I couldn’t possibly tell him about my fantasy and I wasn’t a good enough liar to make up an alternate story on the fly. The hot sting of a blush crept across my face just thinking about it.
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AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Genevieve Jack grew up in a suburb of Chicago and attended a high school rumored to be haunted. She loves old cemeteries and enjoys a good ghost tour. Genevieve specializes in original, cross-genre stories with surprising twists and writes a best-selling young adult series under a different name. She lives in central Illinois with her husband, two children, and a Brittany named Riptide who holds down her feet while she writes.
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