Page 62 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

Now my sister is quiet, and we both know why. “What’s his name?” she finally asks.

“Theo. Theo Manford.”

“Manford? That sounds familiar. Hang on.” I can hear her fingers running over keys, and I know she’s googling him, even as we speak. “Hmm. Wait. Does he work for the BBC?”

“Oh.” I think so. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll find out.”

“You don’t need to. I just did.” She makes a satisfied noise. “Yeah, he checks out clean at first glance. Manford,” she adds thoughtfully. “I know that name. No worries though. I’ll do a deeper dive later.”

“If you want to.”

“I don’t want to, babe. We need to,” she replies bluntly.

At her tone, I feel a trickle of doubt run through me. “Maybe this is a bad idea—”

“No, don’t you dare,” my sister interrupts my downward spiral sharply. “You like him, remember? He’s a nice guy. One hundred per cent, he won’t be one of them—” She cuts herself off and I hear her take a deep breath. “Look, just go out tonight, and have a good time. You’ve earned it. Fun is allowed. Fun is fine. Just know that if this man hurts you in any way, I will personally track him down.”

I can’t help it. I laugh, shaking my head. “God help him then. You’re terrifying.”

“I prefer the term ‘single-minded’.”

“All right, Miss Single-minded. What should I wear tonight then?”

“You know what? You like this guy. Put on the black dress.”

“You said it was too ‘date’.”

“It is, but that’s perfect for you right now,” she says confidently. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing, and will accept full responsibility for your future heartbreak, if I’m wrong. I’m not though. That dress is the winner.”

I nod, pulling the dress from the hanger.

“Have a good time tonight,” my sister carries on. “But at even the slightest hint of trouble, call me.”

“There won’t be trouble,” I say, trying to channel confidence. “I can feel it. This one’s a good one, I promise you.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Theo takes me to a bakery near London Bridge, for which I am entirely overdressed.

“Really?” I ask, as I shift in my black dress on a stool, and he smiles at me.

“Give me ten minutes,” he says. “If you’re not convinced by then, we’re out of here.”

Ten minutes later, I would quite literally fight someone to stay.

The place smells like cinnamon and sugar and something warm and buttery that feels like a hug you didn’t know you needed. It’s busy in an effortless, unbothered way, with people in coats and boots, scarves half-unwrapped, chatting over coffee like this is just another Tuesday.

Meanwhile, I look like I’m waiting for a proposal somewhere between croissants and the éclairs.

I don’t care though, because—

“Oh my God,” I say, as Theo sets a plate in front of me.

There are so many pastries to choose from. Light and golden, dusted with sugar, glazed, filled — each one somehow more perfect than the last. I take a bite of a strawberry tart that is at once both buttery and sweet. The kind of pastry that practically dissolves the second you bite into them. I make a noise of contented pleasure, and Theo laughs.

“Convinced?”

“Yes,” I say, already eyeing an apple turnover so light I’m surprised it’s not floating three feet off the floor. “I’ll never doubt you again.”