I have them. Real life is not cooperating.
I don’t require poolside margaritas under a fancy cabana to have a good time. All I wanted was ten ghost-free days to enjoy sightseeing New Orleans with my boyfriend, to admire art galleries, listen to live music, and eat as many beignets as I can before my pants stop buttoning.
I might as well have asked Santa for a unicorn.
Within thirty-six hours of setting foot in the Big Easy, an ancient ghost warns me of a murderous spirit lurking in the city, a strip-mall psychic tells me I look pregnant (I blame the beignets) and, oh, yeah, a dead body shows up on the set of my boyfriend’s TV show and he lands himself at the top of the suspect list.
If this karma, I must have been an ax murderer in a previous life.