Ghost & Me

By Tonwand North

GET READY FOR LAUGHTER, LOVE AND ADVENTURE!

Paranormal | Contemporary Romance | British Humour

Ethan Hart, an anxious accountant grappling with basophobia, doesn't need a psychic to tell him he's cursed. His holiday weekend is already off to a bad start when he's dumped before he boards the train. And at reception, two guests have died before he's checked in. And now his room is haunted.

 

Armed with an eccentric band of pensioners and a vacuum cleaner for protection, Ethan embarks on a quest to make things right and banish his unwanted poltergeist into the abyss. But when his seance almost burns down the Scottish Inn, he meets Lucy Jewels, a ghostly rock guitarist who refuses to accept he's a ghost, and Tommy, a charismatic firefighter who sparks his interest.

 

As Ethan uncovers the secrets of Lucy's past and the mysterious ring that links them, he must confront his own feelings and make a choice between the warmth of the living and the haunting allure of the departed.

 

A gay romantic comedy centred around Ethan's journey of self-discovery with a twist of magic and musical mischief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tonwand North
• Release date: Nov 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223490371

Tonwand North

Hi, I'm a romance writer who loves to create worlds where people find love and find freedom. My stories are about people who are brought together by fate, destiny, or luck—but most often by their own stubbornness and refusal to give up on each other.I believe everyone has an inner romantic and wants to be swept off their feet by an incredible partner—and that everyone deserves to have that kind of love in their life. My stories are all about finding your soulmate, letting go of fear and judgment, and finally embracing yourself so that you can truly be seen by someone special.And I promise: no matter what obstacles stand in the way of true love (and there are always obstacles), there will always be a happy ending.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I huff at the shirt reviews. Who cares if the colour fades in the wash? How many men wore it on a date that ended in sex? That’s what I need to know. I adjust my thin black tie over the plum shirt and check myself out in the mirrored wardrobe. Will it make Patrick weak in the knees? Will it entice him to hop on a train for a spontaneous weekend of debauchery?

Balancing the catalogue on the nightstand, I admire the chirpy magazine model. He has his hand in his back trouser pocket, his confidence bobbing on a sea of men’s phone numbers. So I copy his pose: facing one way, then the other. Does the colour plum even flatter my chestnut hair?

I look like a tit, and whomp the catalogue into the bin.

Designed to brighten your life. Yeah, right. I slide open the wardrobe door and stare at the rows of white shirts that scream ‘professional accountant.’ It will take more than a purple shirt to add colour to my life. With a groan, I shake my head and mutter to myself, Less negativity, Ethan. You have a date with Patrick, and he’s handsome, funny—he’s perfect. No, he’s not. My fellow accountant’s demanding and overly-sensitive, but he knows my flaws and still holds my hand. I squirm and tug at his latest gift: a pair of satin emerald boxers with as much flexibility as an iron rope.

Before I’m late, I don a stylish black suit jacket over the plum shirt and tuck the holiday leaflet and train tickets in the inner pocket. Then check my wallet to make sure I haven’t lost the ring I found beneath a pile of jangly coins in a thrift store. Its gold band, engraved with my lucky number eight, is surely a sign from destiny? I give it a kiss before returning it to my wallet.

In the hallway, uplighters soften the bleak white walls as I tap Dad’s bedroom door. Elvis warbles, Always on My Mind, as I hover my palm indecisively over the shiny doorknob. After work, he’s always curled up in a ball, hugging Mum’s dressing gown. So, I smooth my tie and call, I’m going out, and I’ve got my key. So don’t wait up.

After I lock the front door, I clench the railings and don’t look down. Palms sweaty, I ignore the dizziness and slowly descend the few steps to the pavement. An evening of opportunity awaits and I inhale the clear night air while taking a moment to message Patrick: Did you notice our profit margin for last quarter was 12.3456789%? That’s rare, and I couldn’t help but think it’s a sign of good luck. I’m heading to the underground. See you at seven.

I quickly add to the message: I have a surprise, then pat my chest to double-check the tickets are in my pocket.

On the way, I stop to withdraw five hundred from the cash machine. Then meticulously count the bills, savouring the inky scent of success mixed with the hint of hope and snuggly times to come. With a satisfying rustle, I slip the crisp notes into my wallet.

While waiting at the crossing, a red double-decker bus comes to a halt. Its billboard features world-famous glam rock star Lucy Jewels. Tonight, he’s dressed in a monochrome harlequin costume with black diamonds around his eyes and an illicit smirk that makes my insides tingle. I turn to check my fringe in the department store window and while I fix a drooping strand; I’m drawn to the reflection of his dazzling blue eyes. They emit a sexual prowess that commands look at me, and I do until the bus takes him away.

As I wait on the underground platform, the air is thick with sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and the unmistakable clammy odour of damp concrete. While trying my best to avoid the sea of bodies pressing up against me, a female voice from behind says, That young man needs help to find his true love before it’s too late.

I’m disappointed she’s not wearing a pink frock and brandishing a sparkly wand when I face the grey-bobbed, voluptuous woman with a double chin. There’s a jangle from beneath her black shawl as I ask, Sorry, who?

Her fingerless black mitt points at the billboard, which features none other than rock stud Lucy Jewels holding a white rabbit. He stares at me with a sly grin full of mischief—daring me to stroke his fluffy bunny. And the strange woman stares at me with a stern, expectant expression that says—his bunny is off limits.

You’ve altered destiny, she states, wrapping her black fringed shawl tighter around her shoulders with another jangle.

She’s the one who needs help, but before I can ask if she’s homeless, the loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing the arrival of my train, and the surrounding crowd begins to shift. Jostled and pushed as eager passengers elbow their way past, I rummage in my pocket for loose change. But when I glance up, she’s gone.

Swept onto the train, I grip a handrail of a packed carriage, and the doors swish closed. It jerks forward, and at the tug on my trouser leg, I meet the wide-eyed curiosity of a five-year-old with adorable ponytails sprouting above each ear. Her tiny voice giggles. He’s making a funny face.

Following her gaze, another poster greets me when I turn my head. This time a black electric guitar hangs at the harlequin’s hips with an amplifier smoking behind his long wiry black hair. Heat warms my cheeks and I rub the back of my neck, for his slightly parted lips and hooded gaze are the expression of a man holding an erect guitar neck in his palm. I swallow and lie. Yeah, he doesn’t look like he’s having a good time.

Her eyes widen. Mum says he doesn’t wear underwear because people steal them.

I chuckle at Mum’s hand clamping around her tiny mouth.

As the train slows, I grasp the overhead rail for balance and the lead singer’s muscle-hugging harlequin costume draws my attention. My hungry gaze licks down its black and white checks, and my imagination drifts to a fantasy of Lucy Jewels crouched before me on stage. Coloured lights glint off his electric guitar, while his sexually charged vocals sing, I wish for love, I wish for luck, I wish for you to be mine. His haunting blue eyes within black diamonds tilt to look directly into mine. And under his intense gaze, my dick throbs with warm fuzzy feels until the whites of his eyes suddenly widen before he dives, snatching my wrist while yelling, ETHAN!

Jolted from the vision, I stagger into the newspaper behind, and the businessman growls, Watch it, freak!

The doors part, and I’m forced onto the platform. With my heart pounding, I realise I forgot my anxiety meds, and I glance at my watch, but it’s almost seven. With a deep inhale to slow my racing pulse, I stroke my tie and focus on easing my breathing as I make my way towards the restaurant.

Dodging bodies, my ears buzz from the blare of sirens and honking cars as I chant, I’m not a freak. I don’t need meds. I’m fine.

Outside the restaurant’s dark glass front, I pause to check the tickets are still in my pocket, then sweep the door open.

Inside, I’m embraced by the ambience of mouth-watering steaks and buoyant chatter. As I wait beneath the airy ceiling and the glint of polished copper fittings, I’m drawn to the enormous city landscape overhead. Its vibrant red and orange energy evokes ambition and success. Then hazel eyes framed by strong dark eyebrows raise from a booking screen to meet mine, and the waiter’s smile widens in greeting as he says, Good evening. How may I help you?

I jolt forward. I... I made a reservation for two.

The name?

I smooth my tie. Ethan Hart.

While he checks the screen, I check the white seams straining across his broad shoulders. The waiter’s older, maybe thirty, and wearing a black waistcoat that hugs his chest tighter than a jealous lover.

Your table is ready. This way, sir.

I follow until he halts at a glossy black square with crisp white napkins and shiny silver cutlery and pulls the chair out. As I take a seat, he hands me a menu, and a snake tattoo peeks out from under his white cuff. A heated flush warms my cheeks as I wonder what other artistic treasures stripping off his shirt would reveal.

Tonight’s special is the steak fillet, he informs me, and I flick my appetite off his fillet towards the bustling street until he asks, What would you like to drink?

My shoulders sag, knowing my credit rating is about to default when I admit, I don’t know much about wine, but I’d like to impress my date.

I’ll bring a carafe of our house white for the table.

Thank you, I beam, and he nods before departing.

At eight, Patrick finally arrives. Dumping his denim satchel on the floor, he tosses his black overcoat at the waiter, saying, I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks. His red curls bounce as he slumps into the seat, and I release my frayed napkin.

Sorry I’m late, he groans. Buses are a pain. Is this place new? I hope they do vegan.

They do, I reply, handing him the menu I’ve memorised, and address the paint speckles on his wrinkled shirt. What happened?

Forced eviction if I didn’t help Mum paint the sitting room. He dabs at a paint smudge with his napkin while asking, Are the rumours true, you turned down another promotion? I nod, then sip wine to avoid his studious frown until he asks, Have you spoken to your therapist recently?

My insides wither. Telling him was a mistake, but he deserved an explanation why I can’t use the elevator at work, eat in the upstairs café, or stay the night at his top-floor apartment. I shrug. I didn’t have time.

Oh, Ethan. You won’t get better if you don’t go. It’s not just about you. Someone might need your help one day and you’ll regret it if you’re not ready.

I shake my phone at him. Trained professionals are minutes away.

The waiter interrupts to ask, Are you ready to order?

Patrick selects the gnocchi with warm rhubarb salad to start, then prods the menu. The baked beetroot pudding with potato dauphinois, he asks. Is it vegan? I don’t want sauce squeezed from an animal’s teat.

The waiter leans towards the menu; the candlelight glinting in his hazel eyes. Then may I suggest our roasted cauliflower, potato, and chickpea curry? None of our beans have udders.

While Patrick lifts his phone to geo-locate the potato fields, my focus stalks the sizzling fillet that just wafted past my line of sight. I lick my lips as the waitress presents it to a burly man whose wife has already fashioned its cousin into a handbag and matching shoes.

After Patrick orders the chickpea curry, I choose the organic barley with cheese and tomato sauce to start, followed by the mushroom, smoked cheese and Heather ale strudel. As I hand over my menu, Patrick leans nearer, his emerald eyes glittering in the candlelight. Ethan, you’re killing me. Please tell me about the surprise.

If only Patrick showed this enthusiasm about his spreadsheets. Doesn’t matter. Unable to contain my excitement, I sweep the train tickets across the tabletop. But his hands drop to his lap like I just handed him a parking ticket. With a frown, he asks, What’s this?

You suggested somewhere quiet, so I booked a weekend in Merrikton. We can... I lean nearer, my heart pounding, as I lower my voice. Have sex.

Before he can respond, the waiter returns, placing a platter of homemade gnocchi before Patrick and then my caramel tomato barley with asparagus before me. I smile at the waiter. This looks fantastic.—not a lie. But not a steak.

Oh, Ethan. Patrick’s raised fork intimidates my cheese, then recoils as if it’s radioactive. It’s your body. Stick what you like in it.

Next time, try the steak fillet, suggests the waiter. It’s one of our specialties.

Like a jack-in-a-box, my man-fillet springs to attention, eager to taste the waiter’s specialty, but then flops like a wilted cabbage, strangled in unyielding satin boxers. I muffle its struggle under a napkin and compose myself. My back straightening as I smile warmly, and hope my voice doesn’t betray my medium-rare desires. Next time, I might, I reply.

The waiter’s smile widens as he mistakes my tenderised expression for an appreciation of the food. Enjoy your meal.

I chomp on a stick of asparagus and watch him depart. His black trousers clinging to his thighs like Christmas paper, begging to be unwrapped.

Patrick suddenly groans like a deflating bagpipe and covers his face with his palms. I glance at my plate before asking, Are you upset about the cheese? I can change it.

Not the cheese, he replies with a sigh. It’s the weekend.

I reach across the table, soothing his sleeve gently. If it’s too soon for sex, it’s okay. I don’t want to pressure you.

The mewling stops abruptly, and he uncovers his face. Too soon? he squeaks. No man has ever made me wait a month.

He skewers a dumpling, and we eat in grave silence until he says, When we discussed a romantic weekend, I was picturing white sandy beaches and spooning under the stars to the sound of crashing waves. I accept the misunderstanding is my fault for not being specific. It’s just when I suggested quiet. I meant private... not dead!

I lift the half-empty carafe and fill my glass. Do you want wine? I offer.

I don’t drink wine, replies Patrick, and sips his gin before asking, Have you ever visited the countryside?

I give a shrug.

It smells, Ethan, and there’re no gay men. I don’t want stretched on a rack until I’m straight.

It can’t be that bad, I say. Remembering the holiday leaflet, I slap it on the train tickets and tap the white two-storey inn. It’s historic.

He audibly exhales before he spins the grey-roofed building my way. It looks haunted.

Undefeated, I open the brochure. The countryside looks idyllic. We can take evening strolls together. And the farm cottage has a hot tub.

Patrick whomps his napkin on the leaflet with eyelids flapping like letter boxes. I won’t be shagged against a tractor tyre. I’m not that kind of man, Ethan.

I choke on a mushroom and down my wine while Patrick’s chest rises and falls with the braying of an offended accordion.

The waiter’s snake peaks out from his cuff as he replenishes my empty glass. I bet he’d be up for a tractor tyre. I drown my swelling interest in large vehicle wheels with a chilled sip of never happening and return my focus to what could happen—Patrick.

I reach and affectionately squeeze my fellow accountant’s hand between mine. I was trying to be spontaneous and surprise you. The fingers in my grasp might be too slender for the ring, but if he loves it, I can have it resized.

He drops his eyes, and his chest deflates with another sigh. It’s not you, it’s me. I overheard your father say you’d won tickets to see The Strange Jewels. I just thought the surprise was you inviting me.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat before I admit, I did win VIP backstage passes.

Patrick’s emerald eyes twinkle in the candlelight with the energy of a man about to drop to his knee and propose. I breathe a sigh of relief when the waiter interrupts to place a platter of cheese and ale strudel on my placemat.

Patrick juts forward, thrusting his phone with the image of a harlequin rock star in my face, while gushing, I have a full-length bedroom poster of Lucy Jewels. He’s their lead singer.

I know who Lucy Jewels is, I reply. Only a tortoise with its head stuck up its ass hasn’t seen the harlequin on every billboard.

The waiter slips a steaming bowl of curried lentils beneath Patrick’s elbow while Patrick fans his heated cheeks with his napkin. He’s single.

So what? I narrow my eyes. Like some super-famous rock star is going to date Patrick, then I remember I’m dating Patrick. Why am I dating Patrick?—because I’m out of Lucy Jewels’s league too, and no one else will have me. My dick half-heartedly raises its head to agree that we’re weird and desperate.

Enjoy your meal, interrupts the waiter, and Patrick and I reply in unison, Thank you.

An incoming message saves Patrick’s elbow from diving into the garnish. A message that’s zipped off the screen and replaced by another image of The Strange Jewels. This time it’s their drummer, Julian Strange, who looks like a Viking with his plaited beard. And then Patrick flicks to an image of Julian and Lucy holding hands before reading aloud, The Strange Jewels’ publicist confirms Lucy Jewels and drummer Julian Strange have ended their long-term relationship, but remain close friends after Julian was spotted with new girlfriend.

I drag my gaze from the abandoned holiday leaflet and confess, I exchanged the tickets.

Patrick’s pencilled brows levitate towards his hairline before he squawks, You did what?

I swapped them for the cottage at the Merrik Inn.

His lips warble like wriggling worms as he stutters, You swapped backstage passes to The Strange Jewels for... for... a cottage?

I did.

Are you insane, Ethan?

I clench my tie. My mum and dad took romantic breaks in the countryside.

His napkin whomps the table, and he summons the waiter.

Don’t go, I beg, reaching for his sleeve, but he jerks out of reach.

I can’t believe you gave away backstage passes to meet Lucy Jewels. He swipes his coat from the waiter. You... you’re a FREAK, Ethan Hart.

A lull fills the restaurant. His words stabbing my tender ego. Wait, I call after him. He can’t break up with me. The tickets are non-refundable. I got you a commitment ring, I say, stumbling to my feet, and pulling out my wallet. But the waiter body-blocks my attempt to chase after his red curls flaming towards the exit.

You’re going to sit down. Order dessert. And tomorrow you’ll look for a man who deserves that ring. The waiter’s warm palms close around my trembling fingers that are clenching the gold band.

As I stare into his hazel eyes, I ask, Do you have a menu?

I’ll bring you something special. He winks and turns.

Watching his tasty fillet depart, I hope it’s him on a platter carried by four lions. Medium-rare and drizzled in oil. Normally I eat left to right, but tonight I’d plunder his fillet from the middle out.

I slump in the seat and glug wine, and soon my heady buzz turns the room into a warm glow of candlelight. Couples hold hands, friends laugh, and families celebrate. A lonely reminder, I have a weekend off and no boyfriend to spend it with. My father sits alone mourning the love he’s lost and now I sit alone mourning the love I’ll never have. I smooth a crease in my single tie. At least Dad and I have each other.

Self-pity vibes are partying in full swing when the waiter returns with a platter of mini desserts. With a smile, he says, Something sweet will cheer you up.

Too right it might. Maybe altering destiny is a good thing. Tipsy and buzzing, I lean back in the chair, parting my knees so he can gander my personal dessert menu. With a wink I add, I think you’re sweet.

Not happening, kid.

Kid? I loosen my tie knot and lean across the table to pet his snake tattoo. I’m twenty-one.

His thumb on my chin