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Cemeteries By Moonlight

States of Love

by Hunter Frost

When a serious bout of writer’s block threatens to delay mystery author Drew Daniels’s newest book, his aunt offers her New Orleans apartment in the heart of the French Quarter as a writing retreat. She neglects to mention that it’s occupied by the enigmatic and sexy Finn Murphy, a cemetery tour guide with a penchant for Victorian attire and a Cajun accent.

A body discovered in an open crypt forces reclusive Drew to deal with Finn’s eccentric group of friends and his underlying attraction to the hot Cajun—despite warnings about Finn’s violent past. Drew might write this stuff, but he’s never had to solve a real-life murder. With a deadline looming and a killer on the loose, this retreat is proving to be anything but helpful for Drew’s novel. Drew can only hope he won’t end up a tragic tale for the Ghostly Legends & Lore, Inc. haunted tour.

States of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the United States.

This book is on:
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Excerpt:

HITCHCOCK RUINED birds for me.

Dad took me to see the film when I was seven years old at a theater that ran old classics. He didn’t think it would be a big deal, considering horror movies were a hell of a lot more frightening by the eighties, and I had cut my teeth on those. He was wrong. It scared the shit out of me. I couldn’t see those winged devils without imagining them trying to peck out my eyes with their sharp beaks. I hadn’t turned my back on a seagull or crow since. Didn’t help I shared the same last name as the main character, Melanie Daniels. But I was no Tippi Hedren, in more ways than one, and as I pulled up to the curb across from Royal Street, deep in the heart of the French Quarter, I told myself this wasn’t Bodega Bay, despite the large black crow perched on the apartment balcony.

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At least it was alone as it stared at me, its coal black eyes reflecting the last rays of sun before the day descended into twilight. Thick strokes of orange, red, and pink painted the sky behind the two-story building in front of me, with its light gray walls, slate trim, and wrought-iron lacework lining the balcony. I had my sights set on the large car-width door off to the right side. Creole-style parking, Aunt Celia had called it. I fished the key she had sent out of my jeans pocket.

I felt the urge to tic as I got out of the car, keeping my eye on the folks who walked up and down the street, preparing for a typical Bourbon Street evening of drinking and debauchery. The urge increased, as it commonly did, like an oncoming sneeze, but I could control the Tourette’s for now. The hit I took back in Biloxi would last another hour if I took it easy.

I unlocked the garage-like door and pushed it open the rest of the way before hurrying back to my car, not wanting any curious onlookers to sneak in. With one last glance at the crow, I started the car and entered the dark passageway, as if descending into a massive crypt.

Driving forward, I slowly emerged into the light and a neglected courtyard. A small detached cottage stood to the left behind the apartment. No cars here but mine, now parked on the dirt pad amid overgrown ivy and trees.

Once I had gone back through the dark corridor on foot to secure the door, I grabbed my oversized duffel from the trunk and slung my laptop bag over my shoulder.

To get to the second-floor apartment, I had to unlock yet another door that led to a narrow stairwell where my bags buffeted the walls at every step. Finally, I reached the last entrance at the top. Three doors just to get in? I didn’t want to be ungrateful, but so far the place was more work than respite. Why couldn’t Celia have an antebellum house in the middle of the Garden District?

Once I stepped inside, I stopped whining. Stained wood floors, updated appliances, quartz countertops, open floor plan—the apartment was a renovated dream. I walked toward the windows of the balcony, bypassing the hallway to what must be the two bedrooms and bathroom. The living room had a nice deep sectional and big coffee table that I couldn’t wait to put my feet up on as I worked on my manuscript. Hell, if the weather kept up, I’d rise with the sun and write in one of the cushioned chairs on the balcony, provided that crow stayed away.

I dropped my bags and stretched my arms over my head, rolling my shoulders and neck as I admired the view of the Crescent City.

“Allô?” said a male voice behind me.

My head whipped around so fast it hurt. “Who the hell are you?” I searched the room for anything I could use as a weapon.

“That’s some attitude for a guy who just broke into my home.”

His home? I was sure my eyes widened, and I fought the urge again to tic. This had to be the right place. The address, the keys… could I disable him with a jab from my keys? I sized him up. He was taller than me and bare chested, with countless tats covering a lean and muscled body. The color of his eyes was lost in the shadows, which for some reason disappointed me, and his hair was dark and short, gelled straight up. He wore low-slung basketball shorts in navy blue, red, and gold. New Orleans Pelicans colors. And he held a laundry basket filled with clothes down against his thighs. Not very threatening. However, the most captivating part about him was the gigantic tattoo near his hip: an ornately handled dagger that disappeared into the waistband of his shorts.

He cleared his throat, and I tore my gaze from his body, my cheeks heating.

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About the Author

Hunter lost a bet at a blackjack table and begrudgingly traded temperate Southern California for the sweltering heat of Las Vegas. There she resides with an extremely tolerant husband and two cats named after her favorite beverages, Latte and Java.

When she’s not dreaming of returning to coastal living, Hunter works at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, from where she received her Master’s in British history. In order to appease her muse, she writes the kind of fiction that keeps her sane. She adores romance in all forms, but prefers her stories with two heroes that find their happily-ever-afters with each other.