Ah, ’tis the season! The most fabulous time of the year – Halloween – is right around the corner and, in honour of the occasion, I have a sexy new ghost story to tell you about from one of my favourite people. Aletta Thorne’s The Ghost of Her Ex has ghosts, snark, foul-mouthed church musicians, and a pot dealer named Santa Claus. And did I mention the best part? The Ghost of Her Ex features a heroine who’s over 60 and 125 pounds! I mean… what else do you need?
The Ghost of Her Ex by Aletta Thorne
Available: October 21, 2018
Publisher: Evernight Publishing
Just because she’s sixty-three, cynical, and a church musician, Emily Rauch is hardly done with life—or love. Now that she’s traded in her old barn of a place for a tiny house in the hills, Emily’s ready for a new start. Throw in one enormous pipe organ, two ghosts, a pot dealer named Santa Claus, the reappearance of Emily’s bad-boy college squeeze, and a blizzard … what could possibly go wrong?
Where to Buy:
“No! You’re not old, Mrs. R! You look like you always did!”
Oh, great. So I’ve always looked like this? Without thinking about it, Emily ran her practice-weary fingers through her hair and shook her head to fluff it out a bit. “So—what’s a membership cost these days?”
She’d just finished signing the paperwork and was stowing her reading glasses in her purse when the door to the locker rooms opened. There, red-faced from steam, sauna, and a shower, wearing a black motorcycle jacket and a pair of jeans that he certainly hadn’t distressed that much himself, was none other than Brad Yates, gym bag in hand. The sparse remains of his Harpo-mop hung in wet, limp ringlets over his eyebrows.
Oh, fuck! Oh, fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
“Emily!” He slid his locker-key-on-a-rubber-band at Clara and leaned against the booth’s oak woodwork. “It’s been far too long! I kept trying to call!”
Clara’s eyebrows shot up.
“Hi, Brad,” said Emily.
“I saw that piece about your new place in The Record. Looks wonderful!” His wolfish blue eyes sparkled.
Oh, fabulous. “Um, yeah…” Emily fumbled in her purse for her wallet and slid her credit card back into it.
“Mrs. Hartley, do you want to have a look at the facility? I mean, I should have asked you that before, but I’m just learning this job, I guess, and…”
“My daughter learned to swim in this pool, Clara. I know what I’m getting into. I do understand there’s a lovely new hot tub…”
“There sure is!” That was Brad.
“I’ve been practicing all afternoon, though, and my back’s killing me. Right now, I have to get home. I’ll be back soon with my swimsuit!” Emily was careful not to say just how soon.
“Allow me to walk you out,” said Brad.
And then he was beside her, smelling quite chlorine-y indeed, pink and steaming in the winter air. Emily’s car was parked a block away, up a street lined with big old houses.
“I remember your senior recital. Mendelssohn’s Sonata One! You rocked it! Played with some real guts.” Brad marched along next to her, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
Mendelssohn Sonata One. Emily mainly remembered terror. Had it gone well? Everyone had said so…
“There’s an AGO recital down at St. Thomas Fifth Avenue in about a month. Come downtown with me,” said Brad. “C’mon, we haven’t been at an organ thing together since school. It’ll be a hoot. We can…”
An organ thing. Not even going there.
They were standing in front of her car now.
“Oh, Emily, you truly haven’t changed! You still look so lovely. What luck running into you again!” Brad flung his arms open.
Why the fuck do people keep telling me I haven’t changed? Oh, great. Now he wants a hug. Bet that mean old leather jacket’d be mighty dangerous with all those big, ferocious zippers! I’m certainly not giving Brad Yates a…
But then she looked up at her old boyfriend—and was instantly caught in the patented Yates death ray. His eyes, still an icy blue, a little curious, focused intently on hers—and a major wave of not-entirely-unexpected heat washed through her. Well. Maybe just a quick little hug. I’ll avoid the zippers.
“Oh, Em,” he rumbled, and she felt his breath on her face. He put his arms around her and pulled her close—and suddenly, maddeningly, that was just fine with her. Her breath quickened and she closed her eyes. Then he was kissing her. His tongue was soft and familiar in her mouth and she was kissing him back. His hand slid down to catch the small of her back. He massaged it with strong, keyboard-player fingers, exactly where it had been hurting, and that felt—amazing. More than amazing. It pushed the ache away … and started a different, sharper ache.
Actually, it’s … kind of like the sex dreams.
That made Emily pull away, shocked that her crotch was burning. Brad Yates? What am I thinking? I’m not thinking, that’s what I’m thinking. This is ridiculous…
“Does this mean you’re going to the organ recital with me? Or should we just go back to my place?” The street lamp above them picked out a little hollow at the side of his nose where something or other had been removed. The moto jacket did nothing to disguise the fact that he was a little paunchy (now that she thought about it, he’d always been just a little round in the tummy, even in his prime boating days). His face was still flushed from the steam room—but his eyes were laser-focused on her, which made her whole body feel kind of … carbonated. It just wasn’t fair.
Cripes. What’s wrong with me? Oh hell. Why not? “How about my place?” Emily hoped she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. “Let’s go there.”
About the Author:
Aletta Thorne believes in ghosts. In her “normal” life, she is a choral singer, a poet, a sometimes DJ, and a writer about things non-supernatural. But she’s happiest in front of a glowing screen, giving voice to whoever it is that got her two cats all riled up at three AM. Yes, her house is the oldest one on her street. And of course, it’s quite seriously haunted (even scared the ghost investigator who came to check it out). Aletta is also the author of The Chef and the Ghost of Bartholomew Addison Jenkins.