Free Ghosts of Boyfriends Past by Vivi Andrews

were even handwritten. Their so-soft whispers tickled the back of her mind, where a massive headache was building.
    Why did her grandmother have to be such a collector? Why had Biz cast the spell? Why didn’t magical problems ever just magically resolve themselves? Why did Mark Ellison have to have dimples, determination and an ability to laughingly adapt to every obstacle she threw at him?
    It was enough to make a girl wonder if he might be able to laughingly adapt to the extreme level of weird in her life. What would things have been like if they’d met under different circumstances? No curse, no ghosts, no guilt and no horror at the very idea of flirtation.
    He would have been fun to flirt with…
    Biz drifted off to sleep, fantasizing of all the things she would do with Mark Ellison if doing them wouldn’t kill him.
     
    The banging downstairs was enough to wake the dead. Provided the dead were sleeping. Biz had never figured out whether the ghosts slept or not.
    She blinked blearily, momentarily confused by the fact that she was curled up on the floorboards below the window in the library. Tony had tucked a pillow beneath her head and draped an afghan over her, but in spite of those comforts, the ache in her hip and the lack of sunlight coming through the window told her she’d been lying for far too long in one position on the hardwood floor.
    The hammering sounded again, so hard it sent a slight, shimmying vibration through the floor beneath her.
    Mark was determined. She’d give him that.
    His tenacity would have been impressive if she hadn’t been so sure it was caused by the curse.
    She sat up, her stomach rumbling. Time for dinner.
    If she could ignore temperamental ghosts slamming doors and clanging on pianos, she could ignore thwarted suitors pounding on her door. He could knock all night if he wanted.
    She padded on bare feet into the kitchen and dropped a bagel into the toaster, frowning at the appliance when it didn’t start itself. “Tony?”
    Where was he? For that matter, where were all three of them? It wasn’t like them to vanish on her.
    A fresh round of bangs shook the floorboards, and Biz frowned. Funny. It seemed to be coming from inside the shop.
    The memory of Tony knocking Mark’s legs out from under him flashed in her brain, followed by visions of the ghosts unlocking the door downstairs, letting Mark in and beating him senseless.
    “Tony, no .”
    Without a second thought, Biz ran. She clattered down the stairs so fast her foot slipped out from under her and she nearly took a header down the last few, but an unseen hand on her shoulder jerked her back. “Thanks,” she called, continuing her sprint. She leapt over boxes in the storeroom like an Olympic hurdler—if Olympic hurdlers caught their toes on the hurdles and staggered clumsily against the wall before regaining their feet—and burst through the door into the shop.
    Every light was blazing and every surface was a bright, bloody red.
    She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Mayhem. Chaos. Mark lying crippled and helpless on the floor.
    Her ghosts had never hurt anyone before, but they had been making their presence felt more than usual since Mark’s arrival in town. The curse going through another iteration was bound to set them off. She hadn’t been able to imagine what they would do.
    But Tony had caught her on the stairs; he hadn’t been in the shop.
    What she saw in her shop was so far from her vague expectations, it took her a moment to realize what she was looking at, like a pointillist painting coming into focus.
    Gillian straddled the apex of a ladder, a hammer in one hand and a fuchsia heart in the other. Around her, the shop was an explosion of pinks and reds and romantic slogans—like a giant box of Sweethearts had blasted Valentine’s gaiety onto every surface.
    “What in God’s name are you doing, Gillian?”
    Gilly squeaked and whipped around to face her. “Biz! What are you doing here?” The ladder