Page 32 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)
“Is Nan your boss?”
Libby nodded around a sip of her coffee. “She’s that too. But mainly she’s my grandmother.”
“And what does she do?”
“Paranormal investigation,” she said, the way anyone else in the world would say insurance salesman . But that was Boneyard Key for you, wasn’t it?
Tristan tightened his grip on the bakery bag. “You and your grandmother are ghost hunters?” He tried to sound casual about it, he really did. But this was all still new to him, Parmesan cheese and refrigerator magnets notwithstanding.
“Nan’s a ghost hunter,” she clarified. “I’m an office manager. And procurer of breakfast.”
The crystal shop was closed too, and Tristan clucked his tongue as they walked past it. “Is no one open today?”
Libby shrugged. “Hours get a little wonky in the low season. Especially during the week. Boneyard Key is more of a weekend kind of place.”
“I don’t get it.” Tristan took a frustrated pull from his coffee. Libby was right; the cold brew was excellent. “Even when it’s slow, places should stay open, right? Catch the customers that might be around.”
“Maybe. But think of it like this.” She gestured up Beachside Drive, back the way they had come.
“Spectral Souvenirs, down around the corner, is mostly a bunch of kitschy crap. T-shirts, shot glasses, trucker hats. Not a lot of locals in the market for a Boneyard Key souvenir shirt, right?” Tristan had to reluctantly agree, despite his own growing collection.
“If they’re open on, say, a Wednesday? They might sell one, maybe two T-shirts.
A couple candy bars to local kids, maybe, even though those kids can get ’em for cheaper over at the Supernatural Market because Spectral Souvenirs sells them at a bigger markup.
So on a day like today, they’re gonna bring in fifty, a hundred bucks if they’re lucky. Now think about costs…”
Tristan gave a firm nod. Now they were in his territory. Profit and loss statements danced in his mind’s eye. “Overhead, electricity, water, paying your employees…you’re going to come out in the red.”
“Exactly. Or you cut overhead by manning the store yourself. Seven days a week? When do you take a day off?”
“Okay, I get it.” Tristan would hold up a hand in surrender, but his hands were full.
“Not to mention…” Libby shot him a grin. “Hard to have a lot of work ethic when it’s this hot outside.”
“Can’t argue with that.” He followed her up the sidewalk to the front door of another Sears kit house, similar to Mystic Crystals.
The sign out front said Simpson Investigations in plain white lettering against a black background—nary a cartoon ghost in sight.
He’d thought it was a PI’s office all this time, but he supposed it was that too.
Tristan took the bakery bag in his teeth, holding Libby’s coffee for her while she unlocked the door. It was hot and stuffy inside; she was obviously just getting there for the day.
“You can set that over there.” She indicated the large desk set in a living room turned reception area.
He obeyed, placing her coffee and the pastries in front of her computer while she bustled into a back room.
A moment later the air conditioning whooshed on, and he tilted his head up toward the vent with an involuntary sigh of relief.
“What about during the pandemic?” He picked up the thread of the conversation. “When things were locked down? How did y’all make it through that? Like, what did Sophie do with no tours?” He tried to sound nonchalant, but Libby squinted at him when she emerged from the back.
“She worked.” Libby arched one eyebrow. “She has a day job, you know. I don’t know how you’re making ghost tours pay the bills, but for her it’s a side hustle. A passion project.”
Those words hit him: passion project . Ghouls Night Out was a passion project for him too.
At least it had been, back when they’d started.
He genuinely had fun leading these tours.
He loved wearing the outfit and making people laugh.
It was all the businessy stuff, projections and forecasting and spreadsheets, that gave him a headache.
He’d always been happy to let Eric handle that side of things.
Something must have shown on his face, because Libby tilted her head as she regarded him. “Aw, what’s the matter?” She batted her eyes at him as she swirled around the ice in her drink. “You upset that Sophie’s beating the pants off you?”
“What?” Tristan’s brain stumbled. He didn’t want to think about Sophie and his pants in the same sentence. “She’s not…My pants are…What?”
Now Libby’s grin became a laugh. She settled herself behind her desk and switched on the desktop computer. “Thanks for helping me with my stuff.” Her tone was dismissive, but her blue eyes sparkled in his direction. “You’re not all bad, I guess.”
Tristan saluted her with what was left of his coffee. “It’s what I strive for.”
Nothing had been resolved, he realized as he went back into the late-morning heat.
His business was still on the brink of failure, and he still was locked in a ridiculous battle of wills with a woman he’d much rather be kissing.
But he knew what to order at the second-best coffee shop in town, and that wasn’t nothing.