A connection that’s more than supernatural emerges between two rival tour guides who wish they could ghost each other in this sparkling romantic comedy from USA Today bestselling author Mallory Marlowe.
About the Book
Paranormal medium Rory Woods spends her days offering psychic readings at Ye Olde Spirit Shop and nights haunting the streets of Boston as a ghost-tour guide. Sure, business could be better, but she’s proud of the shop she runs with her mom.
Enter Ezra Blackwell: adjunct history professor, noted thorn in Rory’s side, and—though she’d only admit it under threat of medieval torture he surely knows too much about—a distractingly handsome, charismatic coworker.
Rory can’t stand Ezra’s know-it-all, show-offy behavior. Ezra loves to tease the gorgeous, brilliant medium at the shop. And when the two are forced to host a tour together? It’s no wonder they end up hexed after disturbing a matchmaking ghost.
Saddled with perpetual bad luck unless they’re physically near each other, Rory and Ezra will try anything, from séances to kissing, to stop the jinx from wreaking havoc on both their lives. But in their quest to appease the spirit, they realize that growing closer might not be the curse they once thought it was.
Excerpt
Not only do we sell antiques and oddities that change hands, we collaborate with local artisans to sell soaps, spell supplies, tarot cards, and books on all things otherworldly. The store is small, but packed to the gills with the unfamiliar. Display cases line the walls, each containing aged brooches, preserved specimens, withered photos and paintings with peculiar provenances, and much more.
While my peers had stuffed animals and Barbie dolls in their playrooms, I grew up surrounded by taxidermy woodland creatures and filled my company with haunted dolls and relics, breathing in the smell of antiques, aged cedar, and sage.
I run my medium business out of a tiny alcove inside, separated by a draping scarlet curtain. It contains a séance table, a bureau full of my incense, tarot cards, and a collection of my favorite maybe-haunted paintings hanging on the walls.
As I reach the front counter, a rocking chair creaks behind me, and I turn. Not only did my mom inherit money from Vera, but she also inherited many of her possessions-including Clementine.
I kneel before the porcelain doll. Some might call Clementine horrifying on account of her absent, beady black eyes and painted-on smile. They just haven't gotten on her good side.
"Whatcha got for me, girl?" I ask.
Clementine holds a purple primrose in her tiny hand. No one's ever been able to explain it, but Clementine has the supernatural ability to offer people gifts (if she likes them). For me, it's often flowers. She must know I like making little salves and pouches for spells and protection, but I have a special place for her gifts.
"Thank you, Clementine," I tell her, and retreat to my alcove. I open the small scrapbook I've kept for years, find a blank spot, and press Clementine's flower into it with a smile.
I check the grandfather clock in the corner. Just a few more minutes before I've got to greet my next tour group.
I part the beaded curtain leading to our dressing rooms. The ghost tours were my idea. Everything from the black trolleys to the old-fashioned costumes and ghostly makeup is a performance. We allow each guide to create their own persona, alter their costume to their liking, and play the part however they wish, so long as they're getting the history right. Sometimes, I swear I'm more comfortable as Kitty O'Brien than Rory Woods. Kitty is fun, lively, and brave. Things I've never been able to master myself. Kitty isn't weighed down by anxiety and insecurities, and she doesn't fear rejection the way I do. People are enraptured by her stories and peculiarities. Rory, though, never feels like Enough.
I pop open my locker. I'm halfway through applying a new coat of Midnight Plum lip stain when the beaded curtain rustles again and I'm hit with the smell of razor-sharp citrus and leather. I don't have time to groan before Ezra Blackwell-the store's most popular and my least favorite tour guide-saunters in. He buttons his black satin waistcoat with his embroidered violet and charcoal jacket slung over his shoulder. He takes his place in front of the full-length mirror behind me.
"Evening, Ms. O'Brien," he says. His accent stops short of mid-Atlantic, but is deep and proper posh nevertheless. He's astonishingly good with dialects and has tried out a few in his time at the Spirit Tours. This is the one he stuck with. "Looking particularly dead this evening."
Our eyes meet in the mirror. He smirks.
Simply put, Ezra Blackwell looks like he would not survive the Industrial Revolution. He's below average height-though everything feels tall to my five feet-with a lean body of sharp angles. On his head, there's a shock of dark hair that curls at the ends.
Everything about him is an unpredictable danger, from the occasionally painted nails to the silver hoop earring hugging his cartilage, and the myriad of black tattoos peeking from his rolled-up sleeves.
It's particularly dangerous because I am alarmingly into all of that.
Excerpted from Entities to Lovers by Mallory Marlowe Copyright © 2026 by Mallory Marlowe. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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About the Author
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| Photo © by Chandra Wicke Photography |
Mallory Marlowe is an author and video game writer living in Los Angeles, California. Seriously right-brained since childhood, her love of telling stories began with highly elaborate plots for her Barbie dolls and taking elementary school writing projects too seriously. She studied Writing for Film and TV at Emerson College. When she isn’t writing, she’s likely reading, stuck in LA traffic, or has fallen down a weird internet rabbit hole. Learn more at www.mallorymarlowe.com
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