You're So Dead to Me

You’re So Dead to Me GRIMDALE GRAVEYARD MYSTERIES, BOOK 1 STEFFANIE HOLMES Copyright © 2023 by Steffanie Holmes All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover design: Rebecca Frank ISBN: 978-1-99-104663-5 Created with Vellum Contents You’re So Dead to Me Join the newsletter for updates 1. Bree 2. Bree 3. Bree 4. Edward 5. Bree 6. Ambrose 7. Bree 8. Pax 9. Bree 10. Bree 11. Bree 12. Bree 13. Bree 14. Bree 15. Bree 16. Edward 17. Bree 18. Bree 19. Bree 20. Bree 21. Bree 22. Ambrose 23. Bree 24. Bree 25. Pax 26. Bree 27. Edward 28. Bree 29. Bree 30. Bree 31. Bree 32. Bree 33. Bree 34. Pax 35. Edward 36. Bree 37. Bree 38. Bree 39. Bree 40. Bree 41. Bree 42. Bree 43. Pax 44. Bree 45. Bree 46. Bree From the Author Excerpt Agatha Christie meet Black Books Other Books By Steffanie Holmes About the Author You’re So Dead to Me What do you do when three hot, possessive ghosts want to jump your bones? I’m Bree, and I see dead people. Not all dead people. Only those with unfinished business. They’re everywhere – I’ll be eating my breakfast and a poisoned heiress glares over my Cheerios, and I can’t even enjoy the wilderness without being accosted by chattering ex-hikers who don’t understand which mushrooms are edible. I’ve returned to my hometown of Grimdale to cat-sit for my parents while I plan my next move. I’m looking forward to raiding their fridge, hanging out with their two mischievous kittens, and staying far, far away from anything supernatural. But I forgot that I’m never alone in Grimdale. The three ghosts I used to play with as a kid are back in my life again. Only now I’m their age and they’re infuriatingly attractive. There’s the slightly psychotic Roman soldier who loves the Great British Bake Off, the bossy, aristocratic royal prince who demands the finer things in life (er, death), and the blind Victorian gentleman adventurer who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body (or any bones, for that matter). But my three ghoulish houseguests are the least of my problems. I’ve landed a job giving tours of the historic Grimdale Cemetery, and on my very first day, I stumble into a fresh corpse. The dead guy’s ghost needs me to solve his murder so he can cross over, but sticking my nose into spirit business might see me to an early grave. As for my three hauntingly hot friends? It turns out their unfinished business…is me. You’ll Be The Death of Me is the first in a darkly humorous paranormal romance series by bestselling author Steffanie Holmes. If you love a sarcastic heroine, hot, possessive and slightly unhinged ghostly men, a mystery to solve, and a little kooky, spooky lovin’ to set your coffin a rockin’, then quit ghouling around and start reading! Join the newsletter for updates Want a free bonus scene from Bree’s school dance and Bree’s playlist? Grab a free copy of Cabinet of Curiosities – a Steffanie Holmes compendium of short stories and bonus scenes – when you sign up for updates with the Steffanie Holmes newsletter. http://www.steffanieholmes.com/newsletter Every week in my newsletter I talk about the true-life hauntings, strange happenings, crumbling ruins, and creepy facts that inspire my stories. You’ll also get newsletter-exclusive bonus scenes and updates. I love to talk to my readers, so come join us for some spooky fun :) For my dad Who is my first hero I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor every atom of me in magnificent glow than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time. JACK LONDON 1 Bree “Go on, dearie. Let me have a little sniff of that salty goodness.” “No,” I snap under my breath as I snatch the pretzels from the tray table and stuff them in my pocket. For your information, I’m not hanging out in the world’s grossest sex club. (That was two years ago in Amsterdam. My shoes stuck to the floor.) I’m sitting in my seat on a flight somewhere over the United Arab Emirates, minding my own business and trying to ignore the ghost of a blue-haired old biddy who is annoyingly fascinated by my airline snacks. “Pleeeeease? Just hold the bag out so I can have a whiff.” I glare at her before turning my body toward the window. Outside, the world is dark – the kind of deep, unsettling darkness that makes you remember you’re hurtling through space at a gazillion miles an hour with only a computer, a hopefully not-drunk pilot, and the laws of physics standing between you and a fiery, dramatic death. We’re somewhere over the Middle East, but the cloud cover is so thick that it looks like we’re flying into a black hole. Most people in the cabin are settling down to sleep, but I won’t get any peace as long as Chatty Cathy insists on a running commentary of my snacks. “I know you can see me, dearie,” she sighs. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she hovers over the empty seat beside me. “My good friend the headless pilot told me all about you. Well, he didn’t tell me so much as gesticulated. He said your thighs were much bigger. You should eat more, put some meat on those bones – starting with those pretzels in your pocket.” I groan. Stupid ghosts. They have no right to be gesticulating