My Pumpkin Prince – And The Ghost Between Us Read Online Daryl Banner

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, M-M Romance, Paranormal Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
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This is the direct sequel to "My Ghost Roommate (Who Helps Me Get The Guy)".

Halloween is the day I met the love of my life.
It's also the day my roommate died and became a ghost - and a pain in my ass.

Now, two years later, it's about to become my wedding day.

But that's the least of my worries. I'm about to move out of my apartment, which has my ghost roommate freaking out. My paranoid landlord is growing more suspicious of me by the day. And my fiancé's weirdo dads are on the verge of performing a full-blown exorcism on me.

It's just my luck that mere days before the wedding, I come face-to-face with death itself, shatter my soul into pieces, and compromise my very existence.

Will I even survive Halloween to finally achieve my happy-ever-after?

"My Pumpkin Prince (And The Ghost Between Us)" is the spooky and hilarious direct sequel to "My Ghost Roommate (Who Helps Me Get The Guy)". It is recommended to read the books in order. Expect hilarious over-the-top situations involving ghosts, romance amid very unusual circumstances, and a surprise ending that will leave you with all the feels and chills of the Halloween season.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

-1-

And Then You’re Dead

It all happened so fast.

One night, my boyfriend Byron and I were strolling down 13th Street on our way back to his place. It was the closing night of a big Theatre production for which he designed the costumes. I smiled and clung to his arm—the one his designer suit jacket wasn’t hanging from—and admired how well the color of his fitted dress shirt and tie complemented his warm bronze complexion. He teased me about how I blushed like a maraschino cherry when he kissed me in front of the actors and crew in the green room backstage. Then the two of us stopped under a streetlamp, caught by a look in one another’s eyes, and kissed until we couldn’t feel our faces.

The next morning, we woke up engaged.

I guess it wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone on Earth but us. Everyone already knew Byron and I were inseparable. My parents met him several times and fell in love with his sweetness and charm. (He has a magical way of stealing hearts, I guess.) I got to meet his dads, who are an eccentric pair of English professors whose interests range from new age botany to ancient Egyptian pharaohs, Norse mythology, and 13th century art—and now their latest obsession is me and how happy I seem to make their son. No one has to be in the room very long to note how magnetic our attraction is.

It shouldn’t be much of a surprise to us, either. Ever since the day I met Byron—the adorable, tight-shirted barista on the other side of the counter at Spooky Beans Café on 13th and Fortune Street—I knew I was ruined. No guy would ever treat me with as much kindness and patience as he does. No guy would ever send my heart into a gallop the way his touch can do. Byron had me since the very second he smiled and handed me a cup of caramel latte with the wrong name written on it.

To this moment, I still don’t know whether it was the wrong name on the cup or the smile that did it.

But one way or another, Byron claimed my heart.

“We have so much to figure out before Halloween,” I carry on, phone pressed to my ear, as I walk down the block on my way home from the store. I sidestep around a witch’s cauldron set on the sidewalk outside a bakery, its windows lined with plastic bats and ghost stickers. “I think there was some issue with the caterer Dad wanted to use. Can you ask him about it? Oh, and have we still not found a slightly more available pianist who doesn’t have four other gigs that day?”

“Sweetheart, dear, goodness, you’re spinning my head straight off my neck,” sighs my mom in her warm southern drawl. The poor woman has had to put up with my neuroticism this whole past month.

“Sorry,” I apologize with half a laugh as I cross the street when the light changes. Loud teenagers pass by me, laughing and noisy, and I press a finger into my spare ear. “I know I’m stressing about every little thing. I just want the day to go perfectly.”

“I told you it wasn’t gonna be a good idea to have your wedding on Halloween.”

I smile, suddenly picturing my fiancé’s face when I first made the suggestion. He was so caught off-guard, making that cute expression of surprise I love, his full lips parted, his eyes wide and sparkling. Then it was joy that took over his face, and at once, it was the greatest idea ever. “It’s our two-year anniversary. That fateful, beautiful day we met. Byron loves it.”

“Yes, and your sweetie always comes first.” I hear my mom’s delighted sigh through the phone. “I can’t wait until I hear …” The noise of the street becomes so loud, I can’t make out her words.

Squinting, I press a finger into my free ear even firmer, trying to hear. “What was that, Mom?”

“I said I can’t wait to hear the moment y’all say—”

I take another step.

I look up.

The front of a bus rushes forward.

My eyes flash with terror.

I’ve never believed in that weird slow-motion effect that supposedly happens in a time of trauma. There have been reports of people in terrifying or highly stressful situations who describe how the world literally slows down to a crawl. Apparently there is science behind it, too. Something to do with adrenalin flooding your body and enabling your brain to see the world in more frames per second—just like a camera, capturing the moment like a scene from a film. Perhaps it’s nature’s way of allowing us to react quicker. An instant fight-or-flight response. A remarkable design of our bodies, giving us a chance to save ourselves from some inevitable fate.


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