I’m still deep in the writing cave working on my upcoming paranormal why choose romance, Nothing Haunts Like a Heart… but I couldn’t resist sharing a little taste with you.
This story has quickly become one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. It’s moodier, sexier, and a little more spooky than some of my previous books—full of tension, secrets, and an undeniable three-way chemistry that refuses to stay buried.
What starts as curiosity soon becomes something deeper … and much harder to escape.
The scene below is an early glimpse into Miranda’s world—before anyone fully understands just how tangled their lives are about to become.
So dim the lights, settle in, and enjoy this little preview of Nothing Haunts Like a Heart.
And don’t worry…
I’ll be sharing more soon. 👻
-Love, Olive
Chapter One – Miranda
Hooverville, Colorado, was nothing like what I expected. Every tattered postcard featured men in cowboy hats, riding off into the sunset like a frame from the movie Shane. There would inevitably be tumbleweeds in the distance, and cactuses all around. The painted scenes illuminated Hooverville in golden hour oranges and yellows; they proclaimed the town to be the ‘Jewel of the Western Rockies.’
When I packed up a U-Haul with my belongings and moved west from Colorado Springs, I knew what I was leaving behind. Colorado Springs had been my home for more than thirty years, but when Aunt Lily called, I packed it all up for a chance to have a grand adventure.
My apartment in the historic end of downtown held more than simple belongings; it housed the ghosts of every failed relationship I’d survived there. Every time I turned down the hallway to go to the bathroom, I saw a specter of myself, grieving a lost love. I needed a fresh start away from the phantoms of my youth, and moving to West provided a perfect escape.
Aunt Lily was Hooverville’s only real estate agent. When the previous owner listed the aging Victorian house for sale, she placed an offer in my name. A few short months and one hundred thousand dollars later, I was the proud owner of the stately home. A new life awaited me on the other side of the Rocky Mountains, and I was all too eager to claim it for myself.
I fell in love with the house before I ever set foot in it. The Queen Anne-style home had a storied history in Hooverville. In recent history, it was a treasured bed-and-breakfast, and Lily was to be believed, it spent a season as a brothel in the late 1800s. Without a formal walk-through or 3D tour, I put every penny I had into buying the house. Dripping with history and the promise of a fresh start, the estate was the perfect place to move on from my past.
Aunt Lily assured me the previous owner had modernized the building with cable, phone, and WiFi. If I could continue to teach remotely, I could afford the renovations to the manor house I had envisioned. Rose gardens and reading nooks wouldn’t finance themselves. I would put my doctorate in English Literature to good use, even if it meant staring at a dozen black, faceless boxes on my screen for hours a day. Spending hours grading endless essays would be worth every minute if I were doing it in my new home.
Years of Aunt Lily’s faded postcards promised the ‘Jewel of the Western Rockies,’ all cowboys and golden-hour skies. After midnight, Hooverville was just cool, still air and crickets. I shouldered my bag, climbed the stone steps, and found the lockbox with shaking fingers.
Pushing the door open, the narrow white beam from my phone lights up the foyer. As my hand connects with the light, a harsh gust of wind blows through the entryway, chilling me to the bone. The sound echoes through the empty house, whistling like a kettle on the stove.
I slap the wall for a light switch, groping in the dark. After the fifth blind slap, the foyer illuminates. Electricity swirls in the air as I step past the threshold and find the courage to explore.
The house smells of lemon polish—like someone had scrubbed away a life. Every surface is spotless; I couldn’t find a spot of dust on the mantle if I tried. In the kitchen, a thread of old cinnamon clings to the walls. The smell reminds me of the bakery back home, and for a moment, comfort washes over me.
Exiting the kitchen, I sneeze hard. The sound echoes off the walls. The reverberation rattles through my chest as another sneeze wracks my body, and then another.
“Bless you.”
I reply on autopilot, not stopping to think before murmuring, “Thank you.”
I spin around, staring wide-eyed down the corridor, head on a swivel. Down the hall, a white wisp flashes before my eyes and then vanishes into an open doorway. Rooted to the spot, all rational thought in my mind grinds to a halt. One word flashes through my head like a bright, neon light. Ghost.
“What the fuck!” In my panic, I bolt down the stairs, grabbing my duffel bag as I dash out the door. Locking myself in my truck, I dial 911, punching in the numbers. The wait for the call to connect is torture, and with each ring, I want to crawl out of my skin.
A dispatcher answers the phone with a bored, “Hooverville Police Department. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s something in my house!” My voice is a shard of a whisper, piercing the silence in the cab of my truck. “Come quick. There’s someone in my house.”
“Okay, ma’am. Is it someone or something?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“What is your address? I’ll send an officer over.”
“Uh, corner of Fifth and Vine. I think?”
“Which corner? Northeast or south?”
“I—I don’t know! I just moved in, and I…” I trail off, fighting tears that sting the corner of my eyes.
“Deep breaths, ma’am.”
“I’m trying.”
“Count with me, inhale one, two, three.” As I follow their patient lead, my head clears, and I’m able to give them more information about my location.
“Are you somewhere safe? Is there anyone else with you?”
“No, I’m alone., I’m locked in my truck.”
“Good. I need you to stay on the line with me until the officer arrives. I have one responding nearby.”
I stay on the line with the dispatcher for ten agonizing minutes until a swath of red and blue lights washes over my rear window. An officer steps out, approaching my truck with caution.
The officer steps up to my window, looking warily inside the cab. “Evening, ma’am. Dispatch says you think there’s someone in the house?”
“There is. I heard someone, or something,” I say, the edge in my voice sharp even to my own ears. “Sorry. I heard something in there.”
He looks me over with curiosity. “Are you the homeowner?”
“I am now.”
The cop gestures to the house. “Can I go in?”
“Whatever you need.”
“Stay here. Lock your door,” he orders, pulling the flashlight from his utility belt. Drawing his gun as he walks up the stone steps, the officer shines his light inside the house and then steps into the foyer.
I hold my breath as the light pans across the front of the house, then disappears. I track the beam through the windows as he moves from room to room until the light cuts out. It reappears in an upstairs window, shines down on the hood of my truck, and then cuts out again. My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.
After the officer emerges alone, my heart rate settles, and I take a deep breath. Oh, thank God.
He stows his gun and flashlight. “There’s no one in the house, ma’am. Are you sure you heard someone?”
“Yes. I sneezed, they said ‘bless you,’ I screamed, and ran out.”
“Well,” he says, scratching his head, “whoever it was is gone now. Do you have a place to stay the night?”
“I was supposed to stay here.”
“Come into town with me. I’ll get you set up with a room.”
“A room?”
“The wife and I own the Motel 4. We keep a room for nights like this.”
“Nights like this?”
“Hooverville takes a little time to get used to,” he says with an almost practiced shrug, as though it were the simplest explanation in the world.
“I need to lock up.”
He holds out a large, calloused palm. “I’ll do it for you.”
Hands shaking, I offer him the key. The officer locks up the house, shutting off the porch light, and then leads me into Hooverville proper. As promised, he sets me up for the night in the motel.
I thank him for his kindness and offer to pay for my room. He brushes away my credit card and says, “Think nothing of it. It’s what we do for a neighbor in need.”
“This is not how I pictured my first night in town,” I confess, looking around the tiny room.
The officer chuckles, “Welcome to Hooverville, Ms.—?”
“Doctor. Doctor Miranda Curry.” I offer my hand and a smile.
“Welcome to Hooverville, Doctor Curry. I’ll send my best officer to escort you back to the Moore House in the morning.”
“What’s the Moore House?”
“It’s what the locals call your house. It has quite the, uh, colorful history.” Something about his tone unsettles me, as though he knows more about my new home than he wants to let on.
“Thank you for the hospitality, officer—?”
“Harris Warton. Friends call me Harry.”
I offer a warm smile. “Thank you, Harry.”
Not long after he closes the door, I throw the deadbolt and push a chair in front of it for good measure. Settling into the lumpy motel bed, I pull my laptop out of my duffel, prop it up on my lap, and run a web search for the history of the house.
Searching ‘Moore House, Hooverville CO’ drops me down a rabbit hole of information. Dozens of articles about the historic town pop up, each offering local insight. Clicking on a promising headline, a clipping of a news article from 1995 lights up my screen. My stomach churns as I sink deep into the story.
Hooverville Mother Missing; Trail Runs Cold.
In a grainy photo, a woman stands on the porch, waving to the camera. “Hooverville wife, mother, and business-owner Constance Moore has been missing since February 14th. The beloved housewife vanished on Valentine’s morning, leaving no trace behind. After an exhaustive search of the Victorian-era home and the surrounding area, police cannot determine the cause of Mrs. Moore’s disappearance.
In addition to a cherished bed-and-breakfast, Constance leaves behind her teenage son and devoted husband. Police have no leads. If you have details on the disappearance of Mrs. Moore, please contact the Hooverville Police Department.”
My stomach sours as I close the laptop and tuck it away. Something about the story doesn’t sit right with me. Something doesn’t add up. No one goes ‘missing’ in a town as tiny as Hooverville. Someone, somewhere, has to know what happened to Constance. Every town has its secrets, but this? This is a bombshell.
I wear myself out with what-if scenarios and hypotheses. No body, no crime; maybe she got tired of being a mother and walked away? A small, insistent voice in my head pipes up, drowning out the logical side of my psyche. The voice grows louder until it all but screams its truth.
There’s a ghost in your house, Miranda. There’s a ghost, and her name is Constance Moore.
