B.K. Borison Announces Brand-New Paranormal Romance — With A Holiday Twist (Exclusive)

Mar. 15, 2025

Marlayna Demond

Calling all fans of paranormal romance stories,BookTokreaders and Christmas lovers alike — we may have found the perfect holiday novel for you.

“With the deadline of Christmas Eve fast approaching, will they find the key to their futures in each other’s pasts?” the book’s synopsis asks. “Or will they stay firmly in the present, indulging in their unexpected, spirited connection?”

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The novel marksBorison’sfirst foray into paranormal romance, but theUSA Todaybestselling author is already well-known inTikTok’s literature communityfor her Lovelight series, especially her most recent novel,Business Casual.

Other beloved BookTok authors have shared their excitement for the work.Icebreakerauthor Hannah Grace calledGood Spirits"an absolute knockout."

“A new Borison book feels like coming home in the best way. She’s truly in a league of her own,” Grace adds.

Check out an exclusive sneak peek of the novel below.

Christmas has always been my favorite time of year. It’s the only time of year when it feels like magic might be real, hovering somewhere close to the surface. Like you can reach out and touch it. Cup it between frostbitten fingertips like sugarplum kisses and popcorn strung on ribbon. Crackling fires beneath the hearth and gingerbread cookies fresh from the oven. Christmas has always felt right. Christmas has always felt true.

I sink into the comfort of my couch and watch my movie, unwrapping a candy cane while Betty and Judy sing about sisters. Something thick and heavy settles at the back of my throat.Sisters.

Growing up, my sister and I used to lay on the floor with our heads tucked together and watch this scene over and over. We’d promise each other that we’d be the same way, laughing and smiling and dancing —together, always. We watched our mother and our aunt tear into each other until their relationship was a pile of ash. We knew we wanted something different. Something better.

But the last time I talked to my sister, cherry blossoms were on the trees and tears were on her cheeks. Somehow, despite our best intentions, we managed to become exactly like them.

I took one path.

Samantha took another.

I force the thought away. Today is December 1. It’s not a day for painful memories. It’s a day for Danny Kaye and peppermint candies and my coziest socks.

Tradition. Hope. Kindness.

He doesn’t so much as flinch, gazing at me steadily from the shadows.

“Hello, Harriet,” he says easily.

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His voice is rough. A faint accent I can’t pinpoint or recognize. I don’trecognizea single thing about him, most of him hidden in the shadows. All I can make out is a strong jaw and broad body, his hands held loose at his sides.

I press myself farther into my couch. My breath goes shallow. Every murder mystery podcast I have ever listened to has started exactly like this.

The stranger raises his hands, palms facing out. “Don’t be alarmed.”

Don’t be alarmed. Okay. Says the man who is standing — uninvited — in the middle of my living room. He moves closer and light dances over his angular face. He drags one of his hands through his messy, windswept hair.

I grip my candy cane. It’s not sharp enough to stab him with, but I’ve got enough adrenaline coursing through my system to probably cause a little damage.

“What do you want?” I breathe.

“I want to help you.” He moves closer. “It’s not too late, Harriet. You can mend your ways.”

I blink. “Is this, like, a door-to-door thing? I’m not interested in joining your cult, thank you.” His face remains blank. My eyes dart to the door and back again. “How did you get into my house?”

“I—”

“More importantly, when can you leave?”

“I don’t—”

“Black market,” he repeats slowly. He studies the gingerbread house in question, eyebrows raised.

“You can have it,” I whisper. “Please leave now.”

He shakes his head, dragging his attention back to me on the couch. His eyes linger a beat too long on the patterned material of my pajama bottoms. He drags his hand over his jaw. “I have no interest in your gingerbread house.”

“What do you have interest in, then? Murder?”

Good job, Harriet,my brain chirps.Very subtle.

“I have no interest in murder, either.” The light shifts over his face. He is all angles and sharp, knowing eyes. His jaw firms and he tilts his chin up. “I’m interested in your soul,” he says ominously, and my stomach lurches up to my throat.

I pause, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “See, that sounds a little bit like murder.”

“It’s not murder.”

“It really, really sounds like murder.”

“It’s not,” he insists. “I’m not—”

“It’s just, if you’re not a murderer, you should really work on your presentation because—”

“I’m here for your reckoning.” He cuts me off quickly, raising his voice. He sounds frustrated, like none of this is going to plan. Good. That makes two of us. His lips flatten into a line and he gives me a look, something flickering behind his eyes. A flame. Or a candle, almost.

“I’m a Ghost of Christmas Past, Harriet. Your reclamation awaits.”

My jaw hinges open. My candy cane falls to the floor.

On the first day of December, the universe sent to me—

A string of bad luck and a . . . ghost, apparently.

source: people.com