Better Homes and Hauntings

  PRAISE FOR MOLLY HARPER’S WITTY PARANORMAL NOVELS

  “Harper writes characters you can’t help but fall in love with.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  The Nice Girls series

  “Makes me laugh and laugh.”

  —USA Today

  The Naked Werewolf series

  “Comedic entertainment at its best.”

  —Single Titles

  A WITCH’S HANDBOOK OF KISSES AND CURSES

  RT Book Reviews TOP PICK!

  “Harper serves up plenty of hilarity. . . . Fans will be thrilled by this return to the hysterical world of Jane and crew.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “With her distinct, captivating style, Harper hits it out of the park. . . . This reviewer has come to depend on the clever wit and heart that comes with Harper’s books, and I’m happy to report that the last page was turned with a contented sigh.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)

  THE CARE AND FEEDING OF STRAY VAMPIRES

  RT Book Reviews TOP PICK!

  “A perfect combination of smarts and entertainment with a dash of romance. . . . Harper has found a place at the top of my ‘must buy’ list.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)

  “Harper’s feel-good novel is great beach reading, filled with clever humor, snark, silliness, and endearing protagonists.”

  —Booklist

  NICE GIRLS DON’T BITE THEIR NEIGHBORS

  “Harper serves up a terrific fourth dose of vamp camp. . . . The stellar supporting characters, laugh-out-loud moments, and outrageous plot twists will leave readers absolutely satisfied.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Molly Harper is the queen of side-splitting quips. . . . Hilariously original with imaginative adventures and one-of-a-kind characters.”

  —Single Titles

  THE ART OF SEDUCING A NAKED WEREWOLF

  “Harper’s gift for character building and crafting a smart, exciting story is showcased well.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

  “The characters are appealing and the plot is intriguingly original.”

  —Single Titles

  HOW TO FLIRT WITH A NAKED WEREWOLF

  RT Book Reviews TOP PICK!

  “A rollicking, sweet novel that made me laugh aloud. . . . Mo’s wise-cracking, hilarious voice makes this novel such a pleasure to read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James

  “A light, fun, easy read, perfect for lazy days.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  NICE GIRLS DON’T LIVE FOREVER

  RT Book Reviews TOP PICK and Reviewers’ Choice Award winner!

  “Hilariously fun.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)

  “If you aren’t reading Molly Harper, you should be. The Jane Jameson books are sheer fun and giggle. No, make that chortling, laugh-out-loud till you gasp for breath fun.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  NICE GIRLS DON’T DATE DEAD MEN

  “Fast-paced, mysterious, passionate, and hilarious.”

  —RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)

  “With its quirky characters and the funny situations they get into, whether they be normal or paranormal, Nice Girls Don’t Date Dead Men is an amazing novel.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  NICE GIRLS DON’T HAVE FANGS

  RT Book Reviews TOP PICK!

  “Harper’s take on vampire lore will intrigue and entertain. . . . Jane’s snarky first-person narrative is as charming as it is hilarious.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A chuckle-inducing, southern-fried version of Stephanie Plum.”

  —Booklist

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  For Melissa Boldry, Brenda Metzger, Iris Garrott, and youth librarians everywhere who maintain the paranormal nonfiction sections and keep kids like me entertained and inspired

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU, as always, to my ever-patient agent, Stephany Evans. And to my lovely, possum-obsessed editor, Abby Zidle: thanks for letting me try something different. There were so many revisions to this manuscript, and you both stuck by me, without saying “I told you so” once. That alone puts you in the running for publication sainthood.

  Thank you to my mother, Judy Harper, who let me watch an inordinate amount of Scooby-Doo as a child, which led to my lifelong obsession with haunted houses. And to all of the school librarians who put up with me repeatedly checking out the nonfiction “Mysteries of the Paranormal” type books over the years: I was not a normal little girl. Thanks for never holding it against me.

  To my critique partner/life-support system, Jeanette Battista: thank you for all of your time, patience, and honesty. Ruthless, ruthless honesty. To Liliana Hart, Heather Osborn, Nicole Peeler, and Jaye Wells, my beloved S-Sisters: you all inspire me, so you only have yourselves to blame.

  Ignoring the Frantically Waving Red Flags

  BEWARE ALL ENTERPRISES that start with the purchase of Crocs.

  Nina Linden glared down at the bright orange clogs protecting her from slipping on the deck of the S.S. Sine Waves and, for the third time that morning, cursed her assistant’s poor choice in boating shoes. Too wrapped up in the details of the Whitney project for shopping, Nina had told Carrie she needed something safe to wear when ferrying back and forth between Narragansett, Rhode Island, and Whitney Island, something that wouldn’t be ruined by traipsing through the gardens she was responsible for resuscitating. Nina should have been more specific. She should have said, No foam-rubber shoes in radioactive colors that make me walk like a hobbled duck.

  But considering that she was barely able to pay Carrie—who was a competent and loyal assistant in all areas save fashion sense—Nina knew she shouldn’t complain. The shoes, while unfortunate, were not what she needed to focus on right now. She needed to pull herself out of her negative funk. This was the start of a new phase in her life. Demeter Designs would be a going concern. Hell, it would be a sought-after service among the ridiculously rich. All she had to do was survive the next three months.

  Nina leaned her forehead against the sun-warmed teak railing of the perfectly lovely yacht used to ferry the renovation staff back and forth to Whitney Island, a small spit of land twenty miles southeast of Newport.

  Nina had been through so much worse than seasickness in the past year. Near-bankruptcy. Identity theft. Stolen garden tools. This was going to be an adventure, she promised herself. She’d played it too safe with Rick, and it had cost her. She needed this time away. She needed to clear her head.

  The other passengers seemed nice enough. They’d all boarded the Whitney yacht at the same time, and of course, Nina had immediately managed to whack the GQ cover model running the boat in the shin with her rolling suitcase. Instead of getting annoyed, he’d simply offered her a brilliant white smile and taken her bag in addition to his own.

  The other woman on board, a sweet-faced blonde who might have doubled for a fairy-tale princess if not for her Jessica Rabbit figure, was clearly at home on the rocking, creaking vessel. The minute she’d stowed her bags, she’d slipped on her sunglasses, slipped off her shoes, and begun sunning herself on the deck on top of the tiny cabin. For a moment, Nina thought she was the girlfriend of their benefactor, but then she realized how unlikely it was that social-media magnate Deacon
Whitney would have let his girlfriend make the crossing with “the help.” Nina wasn’t exactly sure what the other woman’s role was to be in this . . . mission of theirs.

  Twenty-eight and so upwardly mobile he practically had his own galaxy, Mr. Whitney was the sole programmer/creator of EyeDee, a social-networking site with nearly one billion users that had changed the face of online interactions. Users could “EyeContact” anyone from former high school classmates to childhood friends to—heaven forbid—their parents and share every waking moment of their lives. Whitney had launched the site just after graduating from New York University, eventually parlaying a public offering of his company’s stock into one of the largest personal fortunes in the United States. He was now using that fortune to restore his family’s dilapidated Gilded Age mansion to its former glory, using the team now assembled on the yacht.

  Nina knew she should walk over and say hello to the others. They were going to be working and living together on the Crane’s Nest property over the next few months, until the renovations were finished. But at the moment, she could only concentrate on keeping her breakfast down.

  The boat hit a particularly rough wake, pitching Nina back against the cabin. She moaned, bending at the knees and propping her arms against her thighs.

  A smooth, tanned hand appeared at the corner of Nina’s vision, bearing brightly wrapped candies. She startled, drawing up to her full height, and swayed. The other hand steadied her at the elbow. “Whoa, there,” he said, a laughing lilt to his soothing tone.

  “Sorry about that.” Nina groaned, squinting up at the owner of the outstretched hand.

  “Seasick, huh?” he said, eyeing her sympathetically over the rims of his mirrored aviators.

  “Ever since I was a kid,” she said, glaring at the water glittering in the distance. “I ruined every family fishing trip. My brother always told me it would help to keep my eye on the horizon. But I think my brother is a dirty liar.”

  “Try these,” he said, pressing a few foil-wrapped candies into her clammy palm. “Ginger drops. They’ll help your stomach. And as far as the horizon goes, I think it’s better to concentrate on more immediate surroundings.”

  Unwrapping the candy, Nina followed his line of sight to the blonde’s long, tanned legs and rolled her eyes. Of course, he was eyeing the pretty blonde. He was practically a work of preppy art himself. Perfectly mussed sandy hair, bright blue-green eyes twinkling out over the aforementioned aviators. Pressed khakis, a light purple madras under a navy sport coat. He was fit and tan and managed to pull off the “lavender shirt” thing without seeming effeminate.

  Well, not terribly effeminate. Definitely metrosexual.

  Watching his eyes trace the line of the blonde’s ankles, Nina subconsciously rubbed a hand over the bridge of her nose, which tended to burn if she wasn’t religious with the sunscreen—the price of being a redhead. Typical, she thought wryly: the blonde got ogled, and she got treated like a kid sister.

  The man’s lips quirked a bit when he realized Nina had caught him looking. “Jake Rumson,” he said, offering his hand. “Amateur yachtsman and chief architect who’s supposed to be undoing the mess we’re getting into.”

  “Nina,” she said. “Linden.”

  “Like the tree,” he said, smiling. “You’re with Demeter Designs.”

  “Like the tree, exactly,” she said, a genuine grin breaking through her uneasy expression. She tamped it down quickly. “Not everybody catches that.”

  “I cheated,” Jake whispered, the smooth façade melting a bit to reveal a naughty-schoolboy smile. “I got a look at Whit’s staff list ahead of time. You’re the landscape architect, and you’re named after a tree, and bam, instant mnemonic device.”

  “Do you use little tricks like that often?” she asked.

  “You’re reducing my famous charm to parlor tricks? That’s harsh,” Jake teased, elbowing her in the ribs.

  Months before, this sort of casual contact, particularly from a man she didn’t know, would have made Nina edgy and uncomfortable. She was proud that she’d progressed enough that her only response was a faint blush.

  “Well, what do you know about Cindy Ellis, over there?” he asked. “She owns the Cinderella Cleaning Service.”

  “Never heard of her.” Nina lifted her brow. “She’s a maid?” Whitney’s extensive service contract hadn’t mentioned anything about providing maid service.

  “Not exactly. Ms. Ellis—as she insists I call her—runs a sort of maid-slash-organizational-guru service. She cleans and installs those crazy storage systems in some of the swankiest family-owned estates in Rhode Island. Families who own places like that are always circulating collections of antique furnishings, Christmas decorations, that sort of thing. Ms. Ellis can organize, store, and reset those furnishings on a seasonal system that even the dumbest millionaire could figure out.”

  “Are you saying we’re working for a dumb millionaire?” Nina asked, the corners of her lush mouth tilting up.

  Jake snorted, grinning at her over the rims of his aviators. “First of all, Whit’s a billionaire. And second, it wasn’t his idea to hire her. The Crane’s Nest has been virtually looted by various generations of Whitneys over the years, but there are bound to be a few valuables tucked away where the relatives’ enterprising little paws couldn’t reach. The family is demanding that Whit catalogue every item of historical or monetary value and save it so that they can do battle over them later.”

  Nina frowned. “But it’s Mr. Whitney’s house.”

  “House, yes. Furnishings, no. And Whit’s too decent of a guy to follow my advice, which involved letters from attorneys and a lot of four-letter words.”

  Nina giggled but covered it with a cough. Despite his slick exterior, Nina believed she was going to like Jake—or at least, his ability to make her forget how miserable she was for a moment. If nothing else, he was sharing insider information about their mysterious employer, a precious commodity in this harebrained scheme she’d signed on for—living full-time on the job site for an open-ended period of time with people she barely knew.

  Mr. Whitney had informed Nina during her interview that he wanted to be each contractor’s full-time first priority until the job was completed, that he wanted to reduce opportunities for the contractors to be distracted by other clients’ demands. But according to two contractors Nina had overheard in Whitney’s waiting room, his chief concern was the fact that there had already been several false starts to the renovations. He’d previously lost contractors and workers to “frayed nerves,” courtesy of angry thumping footsteps on the stairway between the second and third floors, strange shifting shadows that darted around at the corners of one’s eyes, the overwhelming sense that someone was watching. The upstairs bedrooms smelled of rose water when no one had sprayed perfume there in decades. And of course, there was the sound of weeping that came from the widow’s walk. Keeping the restorers from returning home every night was supposed to prevent them from losing their nerve to come back to the island in the morning. Not to mention that it would save them the lengthy water commute.

  Nina cleared her throat, trying to find an innocuous reason for the staff to be sequestered. “Would Mr. Whitney’s shaky relationship with his extended family have anything to do with our being hidden away on the island for the summer? I know I wouldn’t want to take the chance that one of us could be persuaded to sneak stuff back to the mainland.”

  “No, but that’s just one more pro for the list,” Jake said brightly, offering her his most charming grin. “Whit wants to finish the project as quickly as possible, and the best way to do that is to have your full attention and have the team stay within shouting distance in case there are problems.”

  Nina arched a sleek red brow. “That sounded like a well-rehearsed statement.”

  Jake’s smile stayed resolutely in place, as if he hadn’t heard her.

  Nina asked, “Why do you call him ‘Whit’?”

  Jake leaned against the c
abin, copying her posture. “Our moms were close friends at college, so we’ve known each other since we were in diapers. Even when we were kids, you could tell he had something the rest of us didn’t, that spark of genius that meant he was either going to be a CEO or a supervillain. And in a very conservative prep school that valued conformity and had the resources to guarantee a certain ‘aesthetic standard,’ a scrawny, six-foot-three freshman who loved comics and D and D stood out. I had an easier time of it, but ‘Deke the Geek’ was bullied like it was his job. Instead of getting all bitter about it, he was still the most decent person I knew. Hell, when my parents refused to believe that a Rumson could have something as pedestrian as ADHD—despite an official diagnosis from people who actually went to medical school—it was Whit who figured out tricks to help me focus and study. I probably wouldn’t have graduated from high school, much less college, without his helping me. So I helped him avoid being tossed into Dumpsters whenever possible and came up with a nickname that didn’t remind him of the assholes we called classmates.”

  Yes, Nina was going to like Jake Rumson—potentially douchey prep vibe and all.

  “You OK there?” Cindy asked, sliding off her perch to fetch Nina a bottle of water from a pretty polished metal cooler. She eyed Jake suspiciously.

  “Barely containing my vomit,” Nina said with a sigh.

  Cindy’s brow furrowed. “Is . . . that ‘OK’ for you?”

  “It’s normal for me,” Nina said, extending her hand for a shake. “Nina Linden.”

  “Cindy Ellis. Nice to meet you,” she said, giving Jake one last warning look before ducking back around the corner of the cabin and into the galley.