In this spooky, small-town YA romance, an amateur ghost hunter and a supernatural skeptic team up for a haunted home renovation project. But is their relationship the real fixer upper? Amity Callaway is sick of being known as the weird girl. As annoyed as she is that her recently divorced mom just moved them across the country to the tiny, quirky town of Harlow’s Rest, Massachusetts, it could be the fresh start she needs. Until Amity discovers their absolute disaster of a new house is supposedly haunted. Theo Hargrave, amateur ghost hunter and son of the local general contractor, is a true believer. When he shows up on their property with his EMF reader in hand, Amity is ready to debunk all his theories. She’s definitely not staring at the small scar through his eyebrow or his ridiculously soft lips. But even Amity can admit their home renovation is doomed. Nothing is going right, from the paint that refuses to dry to the fixtures that keep coming loose. So Amity and Theo strike a deal—his family’s construction expertise for her help investigating the house’s supernatural secrets. Even scarier than ghosts, though? Amity’s growing feelings for Theo. "How (Not) to Renovate a Haunted House is full of laughs, heart, and charm. Amity is a hilarious skeptic, while Theo is a true believer, and their swoony romance amidst a ghost mystery makes for the perfect page-turner. This book is an absolute delight!" — Shelly Page, author of Brewed With Love " Beware, skeptics! This sweet-and-spooky romance will have you believing in ghosts and true love." — Marissa Meyer, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Instant Karma “This exceptional paranormal rom-com gave me the shivers in all the best ways.” —Kamilah Cole, USA Today bestselling author of the Divine Traitors duology Jenny L. Howe is a literature professor, amateur dog wrangler, and owner of too many Lego sets. Getting lost in love stories is her favorite form of escapism, and she still can’t believe that she gets to write her own and share them with the world. She is the author of romances for teens and adults, including her YA debut Love at Full Tilt . Chapter 1 “Have you ever tried to stab something with a chef’s knife?” Pausing the slasher movie we’re watching, I glance at my best friend and toss another fish-shaped cheddar cracker in my mouth. Taylor sits against the tufted headboard of my bed, a pillow clutched against her chest. Her eyes flit to me. “Um . . . have . . . you?” I nod. “That pumpkin last Halloween. Remember, Mom left the carving knife at my aunt’s? It was impossible.” I swing my fist through the air in a stabbing motion. “The tip doesn’t pierce anything. It’s not even sharp.” Taylor snorts. “Sometimes you frighten me.” She tucks a lock of her fire engine–­red hair behind her ear, then submerges her hand in the bowl of similarly red fish beside her. Her black-­painted nails swim through the sea of candy like piranhas. If anyone else said that to me, it would hurt. But it’s a badge of honor from my best friend. Being scared is her favorite extracurricular activity. The girl dreams of falling in love with a ghost (or other supernatural entity—­she’s not picky) someday. “I’m just saying that a chef’s knife is not a good weapon to murder people with.” “What is, then?” Taylor’s left eyebrow arches. “My cousin says, if you’re using kitchen utensils, it should be a slicing knife. But you use the blade, not the point.” Taylor decapitates a fish with her teeth, then uses the body to take pretend notes. She mimes ending the last word with a flourish. “Use slicing knife to do murders. Noted.” “Bobby’s a sous chef. He knows about this stuff.” “Amity, it’s a movie. About a guy who keeps coming back to life after being blown up, set on fire, shot until he looks like Swiss cheese, and catapulted into space. I don’t think they’re going for realism.” I shrug. “All I’m saying is that if they tried , it might actually be scary.” “Someday, Callaway, I’m going to find something that freaks you out.” Taylor thrusts her hand into the air. “This is now my mission.” “Best of luck, Prescott,” I deadpan. When I was five, there was a three-­day span when I refused to go in my room at night because I was convinced a monster was waiting in my closet. My father kept telling me to stop being dramatic and that monsters weren’t real, but it was my mom who proved it to me. We geared up with flashlights and wore whatever outfit made us feel bravest (mine was my oversized Queen Elizabeth I T-shirt that I’d stolen from the back of her closet, hers was her favorite navy-­blue suit), and then we investigated the closet together, eventually discovering that the “monster” was a family of mice that had made a cozy home in the wall. That night taught me that even the scariest things can be disempowered if you just understand what they are. I reach for more fish crackers, then organize them into rows of two on my palm. “You know, I think this