The Ghost in My Guest Room is an Absolute Pr*ck

I didn't ask to inherit a crumbling Victorian house in a town where the primary export is gossip and artisanal goat cheese. I certainly didn't ask for the house to come with a permanent resident. Elias Thorne died in 1994, but apparently, nobody told him that being a ghost doesn't give you the right to comment on my dating life or my tendency to eat cereal over the sink at 3:00 AM.

Elias is arrogant, annoyingly handsome for a dead guy, and has a serious problem with my "modern aesthetic"-which he calls "minimalist garbage." We're stuck together until I can figure out how to flip this house and get back to my real life, but the more we fight over the thermostat and the radio dial, the more I start to wonder if the unfinished business keeping him here has something to do with the night he died... and why he's looking at me like I'm the first living thing he's cared about in thirty years.

It's hard to have a fresh start when your roommate can walk through walls and knows exactly which drawer you hide your "emergency" chocolate in. If I don't lose my mind first, I might just lose my heart to a man who literally isn't there.