Page 42 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“At my work’s annual Halloween party?” My sister’s eyes roll so hard behind her mask I can practically feel it through my collarbone. “Sure.”

I tilt my chin towards the doorway. “Who’s that?”

My sister lifts her head, squinting across the room. She’s dressed head to toe as an angel, which, if you’ve ever spent more than three minutes in her company, you’d realize is the height of irony. “No idea,” she says, adjusting one of her crooked wings. “But he looks like a douche.”

An immediate spark of defensiveness flares in my chest. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He really does,” she insists, swiping my glass of sauvignon and swigging it easily. “I mean, what kind of costume is that?” She leans forward and away from my shoulder, studying him more closely. “Is he dressed as . . . Oh my God. Is he actually dressed as Steve Jobs?”

I shrug, trying very hard to look casual. “Maybe. I mean, you can’t mistake him for anyone else. It’s a clever costume, right?”

“It’s a cheap costume,” my sister snorts, before she tanks back another mouthful of my wine. “Although I guess black turtlenecks might be hard to come by these days. You know, now that the GAP has closed.”

Across the room, Steve Jobs runs a hand through his hair again, still looking mildly bewildered by the entire situation. My sister watches him for another moment, before she glances sideways at me.

“Oh no. Oh no,” she says.

“What?”

“You’re totally into him.”

“I am not.”

“Come on. I know that slightly dopey expression in your eyes. You absolutely, one hundred per cent are.”

“I’m not,” I protest, a little too fervently. “I only saw him, like, thirty seconds ago.”

“So? Thirty seconds is all it takes sometimes.” My sister taps me on the nose. “You should go talk to him.”

A blush instantly forms across my cheeks. “Talk to him? Are you crazy? Or just drunk?”

“Both,” my sister says with a grin. “Go on, talk to him. You never know, this guy might be the one you’re meant to marry. You could have lots of babies. Little nieces and nephews for me to cuddle.” She sits back, taking in the cat ears on my head and the whiskers painted on my cheeks. “Tell me, what do you get when you cross Steve Jobs with a cat?”

“Is that a joke?” I ask suspiciously.

“It is now.” My sister grins. “You get an iCat.”

“Urgh,” I groan. “That’s terrible.”

“I know, and you’re welcome.” She hands my wine glass back to me like she’s just performed a public service. “Now go and talk to him.”

“I’m not talking to him.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” I say, gesturing vaguely in Steve Jobs’s direction, “look at him.”

She squints across the room again. “I am looking at him.”

“He’s cute,” I continue, blushing deeply. “But he looks so serious. He probably owns property and drinks his coffee black. While I’m sitting here clutching cheap wine and wearing cat ears that light up when the music gets too loud.”

As if on cue, my ears flash pink, and my sister bursts out laughing. “Fuck, you have to go and talk to him now.”

“Absolutely not.” I’m certain that by now my cheeks are the same colour as my fake ears.

“But you’re wasting a perfectly good meet-cute,” my sister argues. “I mean, I just spoon-fed you iCat. Trust me, it doesn’t get any better than that.”

“I really hope it does.”