Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“Try me,” I murmur against her neck.
She sighs dramatically. “If you keep touching me in public like this, people are going to think we actually like each other.”
“We do.”
“Yeah, but it’s bad for the brand.”
The brand.
Christ, I still can’t believe this is my life.
Three years ago, we got married under bat-shaped confetti and scandal. Two days later, Aspen decided Devil’s Peak didn’t have nearly enough spooky joy in it—and Haunted Hearts Weddings & Retreats was born. We remodeled a few of the cabins on the river and added some family-friendly areas like a playground, camp store, and multiple fire pits.
Now we’re booked out a year in advance.
Halloween weddings.
Goth vow renewals.
Black lace elopements.
Pagan handfasting ceremonies under the full moon.
And yeah—I build coffin-shaped benches in my workshop professionally now. People pay me for it.
This is who I am now.
Husband. Father. Builder of romantic Halloween-themed infrastructure.
Never saw it coming.
Wouldn’t trade a second of it.
Aspen steps back to admire her setup. The courtyard is covered in flickering lanterns, floating ghost lights, and vintage gothic mirrors she scoured from antique barns. A sign reads: ’Til Death Isn’t Long Enough.
She made that one for us.
“You hungry?” she asks, slipping her hand in mine as we start walking.
“Always.”
“I meant for food.”
“That too.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “I love you, mountain man.”
“Yeah,” I grunt. “I know.”
She laughs. “You’re supposed to say it back.”
“I show it instead.”
She blinks, eyes soft. “Yeah. You really do.”
Filming starts at sunset.
Our old Halloween livestream was such a weird viral hit that people asked for a follow-up special. So now, once a year, we go live to promote Haunted Hearts—and apparently my face looking annoyed on camera is good for business.
Aspen sits us at a carved wooden table under our new sign. Ghost candles. Velvet runner. Cauldrons. She’s glowing. The camera guy counts down.
Three. Two—
I mutter, “Remind me why we do this again?”
Aspen beams into the lens. “Because we’re delightful.”
I grunt. “Debatable.”
“And we own a business. Smile, you sexy cryptid.”
The livestream begins. Thousands tune in.
“Welcome to Haunted Hearts,” Aspen purrs. “Where love is eternal, the fog machines never sleep, and we specialize in happily-ever-afters that include at least six ravens.”
I stare straight at the camera. “And no one touches the fog density controls except me. This is a warning.”
Aspen elbows me. “Today, we’re carving pumpkins and answering your questions.”
A comment flashes across the screen:
@SpookySpice: Thorne, what’s your favorite new decoration this year?
Aspen grins. “Ooh, great question. Go ahead, babe.”
I lean in. “My favorite ornament is the one she didn’t hang.”
She winks at the camera. “He means the mistletoe over our bed.”
The comments explode.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
After filming, we walk down to the cabins, hand in hand. Kids run everywhere in costumes—tiny witches and miniature mummies and vampire pirates who keep stealing candy twice. The entire lodge village glows under amber lights and harvest moon.
Fox and Ruby are running the apple bobbing table.
Perry hosts a séance at the bonfire.
Cal is brooding near the hay bales for no reason, terrifying children into behaving.
It’s our people.
Our home.
Aspen stops in the center of it all, breath visible in the chill. Her eyes shine like she’s caught between worlds—the living and everything beyond.
“Do you ever miss your old life?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” I pull her closer. “Only thing I ever missed was you.”
She exhales, rests her head on my chest. “You know—you still haven’t admitted this place changed you.”
“It didn’t change me.”
“No?”
“It gave me a reason to stop pretending I didn’t want things.”
She looks up at me. “And what do you want?”
I cradle her belly again, brushing my thumb over the stretched fabric of her pumpkin dress.
“Everything that’s mine.”
She shivers. “Possessive much?”
I growl. “You’re mine.”
“Oh, I know.” She smirks. “Clarify it daily, why don’t you?”
“Planning to.”
We stand there, watching our accidental dream unfold in pumpkins and firelight.
Then Aspen whispers something I never saw coming.
“I want more.”
I go still. “More what?”
“Kids. Chaos. Coffins. All of it.”
My heart punches hard.
“You’re sure?”
She nods, eyes fierce. “I was born for this. For you. For them.”
Our son, Ash, barrels toward us, plastic fangs falling out of his mouth as he shouts: “MOM! DAD! The skeleton dunk tank is full of slime!”
Aspen kisses my jaw. “See? Heaven.”
Ash crashes into Aspen’s legs and hugs her belly. “Hi baby!” he shouts at her bump. “You’re gonna like it here! Daddy yells a lot but Mommy said that’s just how he says I love you!”
I groan.
Aspen grins.
“I was thinking on baby names for our girl,” I say, lifting Ash in my arms, “what do you think about Hazel or maybe Autumn?”
Ash scrunches his nose. “Can we name her somethin’ fun?”
“Like what, buddy?” Aspen rubs his back.
“Like Pumpkin!”
A laugh barrels out of me. “Pumpkin Maddox. It has a great ring to it.”
Aspen tickles Ash then and our little man bursts into a fit of uncontrolled giggles.
Later, after sugar crashes and costume chaos and one near fistfight between Fox and Cal over pumpkin ale, we walk home across the lantern path.