Merry Spooky Love

Book 3: Melody Bittersweet series

by Josie Silver

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Romance; Holiday Romance; Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

A ghostbuster and her motley crew face the ghosts of Christmas—and the exes of Christmas past—in this haunted holiday rom-com from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Crazy Spooky Love.

Melody Bittersweet's Christmases are always more haunted than holly jolly, but even she's not used to a heartbreak holiday—which this one could end up being, if she can't save a beloved family-run department store... and if, despite their incredible chemistry and deepening emotional connection, her on-and-off boyfriend, Fletcher Gunn, still won't believe in her paranormal abilities. 

When Lucy Libertine, namesake of the charming old-school department store Libertines, unexpectedly dies, the store goes to her deceased sister's three children: businessmen twins Francis and Tom, and their younger sister Fleur.

Despite Fleur and the local community protesting, the twins are excited to sell up. They hold all the cards as the majority shareholders—that is, until Lucy Libertine herself decides to even the playing field, haunting the twins out of house and home (and department store).

While the twins call in Melody's ghost-hunting ex to defend them, Lucy goes to Melody to represent Fleur and the deceased Libertine family. Melody is all too happy to take another job, save a beloved local store, and maybe knock her ex down a paranormal peg or two.

But old paperwork states that the store cannot be sold within three months of the death of a board member—and Lucy has already been dead for one. With tensions riding high and her relationship with Fletcher caught in the crosshairs, Melody and her crew only have two months left to save the store. 

If they don’t, Libertines will close its doors on Christmas Eve—forever.

Release date: October 13, 2026

Publisher: Dell

Print pages: 288

Sample

Chapter One

“Jeez, it’s freezing out there this morning.” Marina flies through the door, a whirlwind of dark curls with a blanket scarf layered over her trusty leather biker jacket. She doesn’t ride a motorbike, but the jacket looks killer on her curves and it’s gotten her out of several parking tickets, so she sticks with it. Even when it’s clearly not warm enough for the winter weather.

“You could try wearing more clothes,” Glenda says, looking up from the kitchenette counter where she’s artfully arranging pastries on a tray. We’re celebrating seven months in business this morning with a fancy-pants breakfast. As fancy as it can be from Tesco Express, anyway. I’m counting on Marina to pull something amazing from the huge suede hobo bag she’s just tossed onto the armchair.

“No Artie?” Marina says, hanging her jacket then unwinding her huge scarf from around her shoulders. Our office is in an old disused storage room out the back of my family business on Chapelwick High Street, medieval and prone to drafts. We’re not exactly chipping the ice off the windows, but I might have to splurge on one of those little blow heaters we can all huddle around like we’re in an amateur production of Oliver Twist. Marina would 100 percent be the Artful Dodger. I’d probably be Oliver, the plucky, try-hard leader, and Artie would be the tall, gangling waif who always hangs back and lets everyone else grab the best stuff. Glenda . . . I’m not familiar enough with the story to know who she’d be, but if there’s an eagle-eyed ruler with one eye on the coffers and the other one on world domination, she’d be that one. Don’t get me wrong. She’s been part of my life for so long she’s as good as family, but she’s one formidable woman. She’s officially my mother’s secretary, and only on loan to us a couple of mornings a week, yet that’s still enough for her to feel more like the boss than I do. And I am the boss, bizarrely enough. I’m Melody Bittersweet, proprietor of the Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency, and I see dead people. Yeah, I know. I should probably retire that line, although to be fair, I coined it a long time before The Sixth Sense. I come from a long line of ghost-seeing women—it’s our thing. My mother and grandmother make their living as clairvoyants passing messages between the living and the dead out front at Blithe Spirits, and as of seven months ago, we work here in the back dispatching spirits who’ve gotten themselves snagged on an unresolved issue. It happens more than you’d think, and we’ve been pretty busy. And pretty successful so far too, which has surprised everyone, my mother most of all. Radiating quiet charisma from her poker-straight silver hair down to her ballet-graceful ankles, she causes a hush when she walks into a room. She’s never danced, but if she did, I’ve no doubt she’d be the star of the show. She gets it from my gran, who rocks similar main-character energy, but with a dangerous edge of unpredictability and a devil-may-care attitude that frequently gets her into trouble. And us, by default. I’m easily the least attention-grabbing Bittersweet, although I’m working on stepping out of their shadow. It’s not easy when we all live in this rambling black-and-white building as well as work in it—this place is a hot mess of Bittersweet quirk and snark.

“He’ll be here anytime now; he had to take his snake to the vet,” Glenda says regarding Artie’s unusual lateness. He’s normally waiting on the step for me to come downstairs and unlock the office. “She got out of her tank and swallowed one of his egg sandwiches.” Glenda shudders, distaste dripping from every syllable. I don’t know which offends her more, the snake or the sandwich.

Pandora, Artie’s python, is easily the most startling thing about him. To the untrained eye, anyway. He’s younger than us, early twenties, painfully shy around strangers, and prone to stating the obvious. He’s struggled in the past to find his place or his people—until now, that is. He’s stepped into the role of our unlikely apprentice with surprising ease, a perfectly logical foil to Marina’s fire and my absurdity.

“Anything for the tray?” Glenda looks at Marina, gesturing for her to pass any food over she might have brought for our celebration breakfast. We don’t have an everyone-bring-something rule. It’s more of a Marina-bring-something-every-day kind of rule, courtesy of her Nonna, who bakes the kind of things that would make Nigella cry tears of joy. They have a similar effect on me, to be honest. It’s a dark, dark day if Marina doesn’t whip out her lime-green-and-gold tin and wave it under my sugar-addicted nose. I sag with internal relief when she pulls it from her bag and hands it across to Glenda.

“Should I check what’s in there first?” I make a lunge for it as it passes me.

Glenda’s way too fast, wise to my moves. “No need, I’ve got it,” she says, brisk.

I glare at her, but know better than to argue. We all look up as someone taps the door.

“You don’t need to knock, Artie,” I shout, and he peers around the door with a sheepish smile.

“Is it all right if I bring Pandora in?” he says, hovering in the doorway.

“No!” we all yell in startled unison.

He bursts out laughing and comes inside, thankfully snake-free. “Just kidding, I took her home,” he says, and I could get up and hug him for finding the confidence to crack a joke.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he says, pulling a little ziplock bag of tea bags from his coat pocket. I’ve told him countless times I’m happy to supply them, but his mum insists on sending him in fully prepared, along with his egg sandwiches and his minty KitKat.

Lestat, my one-eared rescue pug, drops and rolls off his bed toward Glenda and her beautifully presented breakfast tray, making a halfhearted attempt to hump her leg to get her attention. He’s not that into it; it’s all about the food for him. She’s definitely not into it either, shaking him off with a scathing look that sends him crawling back to his bed on his belly.

“Right then, now that we’re all here, let’s get this breakfast started,” I say, gathering everyone around the coffee table that serves as our meeting space. There’s a threadbare armchair and a low sofa borrowed from my mother’s spare room, plus a TV we sometimes flick on to watch Leo Dark, my ex-boyfriend and main business rival, prance around on his ghost-hunting spot on morning TV. He’s gathered quite a following of middle-aged women who really should know better than have their heads turned by his admittedly smoldering brown gaze and lustrous raven waves that could give Marina a run for her money. I admit it, he’s a looker. But he’s also a wretch who broke my heart and has developed a love for a Sherlock-style hat, so I don’t see the good stuff when I look at him anymore.

Anyway, we’re celebrating, so I don’t turn the TV on and have him prattling in the background putting me off my pastries. Marina pours the coffee, and Artie flops into the armchair with his python-handled mug of tea. Glenda wheels across on her office chair, meeting book in hand, pen at the ready. We might be having a breakfast meeting, but she’s not about to miss an important note for the sake of a ham-and-cheese croissant. I feel a flush of fondness for her as I watch her smooth the page out and double underline the date in red, then click her black ballpoint, ready and waiting.

I raise my mug. “To seven months in business,” I say. We’ve fallen into the habit of toasting every monthly milestone, like parents of a newborn who count their age in days, weeks, and months.