With All My Haunted Heart

by Isabel Sterling

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; LGBT & Pride; Paranormal Romance; Witches

Synopsis

A witch hired to ethically haunt a small-town B&B instead finds herself spellbound by her non-magical client in this cozy and enchanting sapphic romance.

Steadily losing clients to the new DIY-magic shop on the other side of town, Pippa Ainsley is getting desperate. Instead of paying the witch to correct their magical maladies, local mundanes have been taking their chances with the cheaper—and unpredictable—crystals and herbal blends. So when Pippa’s best friend hires her to inspect his newly acquired bed-and-breakfast for ghosts, she doesn’t think twice about it.

That is, until she learns that his unfairly attractive co-owner, Elle Thompson, doesn’t want Pippa to rid their business of spirits. She wants Pippa to give them an edge over the competition by haunting their B&B.

It’s the perfect challenge for Pippa’s experimental magic, but just because she could figure it out, doesn’t mean it’s a smart or safe idea. But Elle is persistent, and the financial boost could save her own business if Pippa succeeds. Soon, Pippa finds herself testing the limits of her magic… and her ability to stop the growing attraction she feels toward Elle, a woman with a painful secret of her own.

Release date: September 8, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter

One

Breaking hexes is a fickle art, but that only makes them more fun.

Not for the person who lands on a witch's shit list, but there's something about the chase, the adrenaline, the need to think quickly and pivot in an instant when I'm working a case that lights up my inner witchy nerd. No two hexes are the same. The intent and emotional charge of the caster invariably change something in the magic's DNA that requires a deft hand to undo it.

As an added bonus, not many witches are willing to hex mundanes, and even fewer of us can untangle that type of magic, which means I get to charge a premium for the service. A year ago, a case like this would have provided enough extra cash to splurge on office upgrades, invest in rare crystals, and add to my emergency fund. But now . . .

Ever since Coffee, Charms, and Crystals-a DIY magic shop that sells pre-charged crystals and packaged herbal blends-opened in Windsfell, business has been down. My bread-and-butter clients, like the real estate agencies that would hire me to cleanse homes of unwanted ghosts, and the local businesses that needed complex anti-theft spells that wouldn't deter regular shoppers from entering, went for the cheaper option. Never mind that the overly generic cheap options the other witch peddles can't come close to the custom-designed magic I provide. Now, the rare hex-breaking case can't keep my business from drowning.

"How much longer is this going to take?"

Today's client, a prominent CEO named Callum Anders, tugs at the collar of his shirt and loosens his tie. Callum doesn't give two shits about my financial woes. I force myself back to the present, back to Callum's luxury penthouse apartment, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming wood floors, and minimalist furniture.

Prior to getting hexed, Callum-a late-forties white man with distinguished salt-and-pepper hair-was a handsome and charming corporate type. He closed some of the biggest real estate deals in the entire city. Now, though, his face is a sickly shade of green, accented by giant purple boils that look ready to burst. Completing the look are shimmery blue scales protruding from his hairline.

"Almost there, Mr. Anders." I take a deep, cleansing breath as I open myself to the flow of magic. "You're sure you don't know who cast the hex?"

"Of course not." Shifting in his chair, the CEO unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls the sleeves to his elbows, revealing additional scales working down his arms. He's only a few days away from going full creature of the deep. "You said the who didn't matter."

"It would make things easier, but it's not necessary," I assure him. I keep my professional exterior intact despite the thrill I feel as magic flows in through the crown of my head and builds in my chest. I circle Callum's chair and draw modified containment sigils in the air between us.

A traditional containment sigil creates a two-way barrier between the caster and whatever is on the other side. My version will keep me safe from any hex-related blowback while allowing me the freedom to push crystals and other magical items from my side of the circle to his.

By the time I've completed the full circumference around Callum, my perpetually cold hands are warm with the buzz of magic.

"Try to relax, Mr. Anders. We can't stop until it's done. This may get uncomfortable." I wait for his brisk nod of consent, and then the fun begins. Magic flows past my hands, an extension of my awareness, and enters the protective circle to poke at the hex. It's disappointingly easy to find an access point. There's no passion behind the spell, no hint of the hurt that typically inspires a witch to reach for this kind of magic.

My initial theory, that a spurned lover turned Callum into a walking tricolor explosion of boils, seems less likely. That level of passion has the capacity to leak into the witch who ultimately cast the spell. I find my way beneath the edge of the hex and give a gentle tug.

One of the purple boils bursts, the first visible sign that my magic is working. It spews a rancid liquid in my direction, but, thankfully, the containment sigil stops the liquid dead in its tracks. It drips down the invisible barrier, pooling on Callum's expensive hardwood.

"That better not stain," he says through gritted teeth.

I ignore him, focused instead on peeling back layer after layer of the hex. The rest of the boils pop one by one, like a disgusting fireworks display. I twist my wrists, guiding the magic deeper. As the blue scales recede into Callum's skin, a flash of intuition blooms in my mind's eye.

A competitor. A passionless decision to keep Callum away from a prospective client.

It's just business echoes in my head as money exchanges hands.

With a quick thank-you to my intuition, I push the thoughts aside. I wasn't hired to find the cause of the hex, and I don't work for free. Not when I've had to dip into my personal savings to keep my business afloat for the last three months.

Callum lets out a pained moan as I crack through the final layer of the hex. "Nearly done, sir." I invite more magic to flow through me, pushing the limits of what I can comfortably channel, and get to work on de-greening the now-scale-free CEO.

The color leaches into the air like putrid smog and swirls around the edge of the magical barrier. Once the last of the green has burst from Callum's skin, I drop my hands and reach for my Lucente-Cole bag, named after the witch who first created it. It's the kind of genius magical invention I wish I'd come up with-a trendy bag spelled to be bigger on the inside. I pull out a large pyramid of selenite and gently nudge it inside the circle I cast.

Within a few minutes, the natural cleansing energy of the selenite has absorbed and neutralized both the green mist and the gross purple goo all over the hardwood floors.

I ignore the rush of disappointment that floods my system. Hexes are rarely so straightforward. Either I'm better than I think-possible, but unlikely-or the witch who cast this couldn't be bothered to get creative. Pity.

"Is that it?" Callum asks, reaching for his phone. "Is it done?"

"Just a few final steps. Take some deep breaths while the magic has a chance to settle." I press my hands to my chest, offer gratitude for the power that flowed through me, and disconnect from the magic.

Still buzzing with energy, I direct the excess to escape through the soles of my feet, back to the universal current of magic that flows in an endless dance across the entire planet. I release the containment sigils and collect my things, storing the selenite in my bag to be cleansed later. From one of the smaller pockets, I retrieve a piece of tiger's-eye that's been tumbled smooth for easy portability. There are a number of protective stones, but I figured a CEO would appreciate that tiger's-eye also has the propensity to bring good luck and prosperity.

Holding the crystal between my hands, I charge the stone and attune it to Callum's energy.

Callum is busy inspecting his now-boil-free face when I approach with the tiger's-eye. "You'll need to keep this on you for the next moon cycle to ensure you aren't reinfected with the hex."

He pockets the crystal without even a cursory glance and adjusts his tie. "And after that?"

I bristle, annoyed that I spent so much time choosing the perfect stone for his situation when he clearly can't tell the difference. It's not about him, I remind myself. I'd take the time to do it right even if I knew he wouldn't care.

"You can continue to keep it close out of an abundance of caution," I say when I've calmed the irritation from my voice. "If you'd like me to find the source of the hex, we can discuss my fees. Whoever hexed you should be reported to NACOW. Using magic to sabotage a business competitor isn't a light offense."

Using any magic that might frighten mundanes is strictly forbidden, a long-standing precaution to maintain positive witch-mundane relations. And as much as I'd prefer to stay far away from NACOW-the North American Council of Witches-I can't afford to turn down premium business right now.

"That won't be necessary." Callum waves off the suggestion, but whether to save money or avoid dealing with NACOW, I'm not sure. "Once whoever did this sees that I'm good as new, they'll know better than to try again."

I'm less certain, but I keep that thought to myself. He seems the type to toss out phrases like I didn't hire you for your opinions. Instead, I gather my things and pull a business card from my pocket.

Pippa Ainsley

Premium Magical Services

Custom & Confidential!

I hand over the card. "If you have any future magical needs, don't hesitate to reach out."

Like he did the crystal, Callum pockets the card without looking at it.

I try again. "I've done extensive work cleansing buildings of unwanted energies and spirits. I know you're involved in real estate and-"

He waves my words away and violently attacks his phone, fingers flying. "There's no need, Miss Ainsley. We already have a contract with C3 for a bulk order of their cleansing stones."

Hearing the cutesy nickname for Coffee, Charms, and Crystals makes their infiltration on my turf feel that much worse. "Well, for trickier cases then. As you've just experienced, not everything can be solved by adding a few crystals to your space. Specificity of intention is incredibly powerful, and I operate with the utmost discretion."

All I get is a perfunctory smile before he ushers me out the door and slams it behind me.

For the space of a breath, I consider hexing him myself. Something benign but annoying, like all his shoes making a terrible squeak when he walks or every warm beverage being perpetually too cold to enjoy. I brush the impulse away and take the elevator to the main lobby of the high-end apartment building. Business may be down, but I won't resort to causing problems so people will hire me to solve them.

Despite what my family thinks, I'm good at what I do.

I'll figure out a way to keep my business intact.

Chapter

Two

By the time I get back to my office, the chronic ache in my lower back is screaming at me for walking in heels, but I've managed to think through a dozen different options for saving the business.

I could expand my footprint. Increase how far I'm willing to travel for clients. Go outside the city to break hexes. Or I could go deeper into the real estate market. There must be other agents in Windsfell who haven't bought into C3's DIY approach. Rich people love a custom touch.

And if that doesn't work . . . I could find a way to cater to the requests I get for love spells that won't violate anyone's autonomy or consent. I cringe at the thought. The people who typically come for love spells-the kind of make this person fall madly in love with me magic that I refuse to cast-rarely accept my counteroffers of customized self-confidence spells.

"Hey, Pip," my office manager and friend, Deanna Hallowell, says when I push through the front door of my office, a small space wedged between a coffee shop and an indie bookstore.

Dea is a petite Black woman, barely more than five feet tall, with a shaved head and a penchant for the most exquisite shades of lipstick. Today she's rocking a coral suit, the jacket draped over her desk chair, and a shimmery gold lipstick. "I assume Mr. Anders is all set?"

"The man is no longer green or oozing purple pus," I confirm, sinking into the chair in front of her desk. My feet ache, but I resist the urge to kick off my heels. I only ever wear them for the corporate clients who expect formal attire from the witches they hire. "Whether he hangs on to the tiger's-eye long enough to stay that way is up for debate."

Dea snorts a laugh and adds a note to her computer. "I'll follow up next week and make sure he's keeping it close. I can tell him about our referral program then, too." She leans around her computer to glare at me. "Please tell me you remembered to pitch him the cleansing package."

I sink lower in my chair. The echo of his door slamming in my face rings through my head. "Coffee, Charms, and Crystals beat us to him."

"Stop moping. No one trusts a whiny witch." Dea gestures behind me. "Besides, I have a surprise."

"A good surprise or a bad one?" Skeptical, I twist in my seat and look through the frosted glass of my personal office. "Uh . . . Deanna? Why is there a stranger in my office?"

Even with my back to her, I hear the smirk in her voice when she says, "Xander isn't a stranger."

The squeal that escapes my lips is far from dignified, but with only Deanna and my best friend around to hear it, I don't care. Especially since Xander is the whole reason Deanna works here. They were friends before I moved to Windsfell, before Xander got his big-city job and left us both. I scramble out of the chair and hurry for my office.

"Pippa!" Xander wears a broad grin when I step inside. He's made himself at home, sitting in my chair with his feet propped up on my desk.

"Come on, man." I anchor my hands on my hips and glare at Xander until he removes his expensive Italian loafers from the glossy wooden surface. Xander is a white man with an impressive summer tan, stylishly ruffled blond hair that sparkles like gold, and blue eyes that have inspired several previous boyfriends to wax poetic.

"You know you love me." Xander rises from the chair, all six feet two inches of him, and crushes me in a hug. He smells like summer-sun-kissed skin, bonfires, and salty sea air-and more than the musty books and burning incense of my actual childhood, Xander smells like home.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" I ask when he finally releases me. He lives in Brooklyn, which is at minimum a three-hour drive from here.

Xander runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he's had since we met in college. "And ruin the surprise? Where's the fun in that?"