RECENT RELEASE
Book Title: Housesitter – Renfield Concierge Services
Author and Cover Artist: TA Moore
Publisher: Rogue Firebird Press
Release Date: September 10, 2026
Pairing: MM
Tense/POV: Third person, alternating POV, past tense
Genres: Paranormal Romance, Romantic Comedy
Tropes: Forbidden love, Lust at First Sight, Pants on Fire, Dark Past
Themes: Sometimes lying is a form of the truth.
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 50 000 words
It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.
A full-time Igor? In THIS economy?
Blurb
Shepherd’s life was supposed to be simple, and short. Very short.
Then the FBI raided the cult compound he was raised in and suddenly there was no one left to sacrifice him to his demonic spouse.
So much for destiny.
Luckily even the damned and the dead still need errands run, curses managed, and carnivorous plants pruned. These days Shepherd works for Renfield Concierge Services as a jack-of-all trades.
His latest gig is house-sitting The Murder House, a necromancer’s delight in Connecticut. All he has to do is keep out nosy teens, feed the books, and stop the coyotes, or next door’s poodle, from digging up the “vegetable” garden. Easy enough.
Until the necromancer’s “son” shows up with a death certificate, a notarized will, and a suspicious lack of knowledge about the supernatural world.
Now Shepherd has to honor his signed-in-blood contract without attracting the attention of any legal—or infernal—authorities who might still be interested in his cult-related past. Because Hell loves a notarised document.
Excerpt
Marble Falls, Connecticut, boasted a picture-postcard-perfect harbor, more antique shops than seemed feasible for a town with under 4000 residents, and a colony of elephant seals. They also had one coffee shop.
Shepherd pulled into the curb outside the Seal of Approval, behind a small, bottle-green scooter with the shop logo displayed on the panniers, and parked. He got out of the minivan, pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head, and squinted at the shop. Today’s special was a Lavender Mocha with a ham and provolone cinnamon bagel for fifteen dollars.
So it was bougie. That was promising.
Shepherd had been to places where the only coffee dealer in town had been Betty in the local diner, with a greasy carafe of whatever had been on sale at Target. It was never freshly brewed either. No matter what time of the day you went in, it tasted like it had been thinking about what it had done for at least 24 hours.
It wasn’t for Shepherd. Bad coffee and celibacy had been two of the three main reasons he’d run away from the cult he’d grown up in.
Shepherd absently reached up to rub his throat, the clot of raised scar tissue over his collarbone slick and itchy under his fingertips.
The fact his ‘family’ was about to sacrifice him to the Lady of the Furrow before they were interrupted by the FBI’s raid on the property did have a strong lead on first place.
Still, the coffee and celibacy had been hard pills to swallow too.
These days he avoided both when he could.
Shepherd locked the minivan and stuck the keys in the pocket of his shorts and headed into the shop.
The bells over the door rang as he pushed it open. A barista was in the middle of the shop, bucket between her feet, as she swilled away at footprints on the tiles. She looked up and gave Shepherd a quick once-over, one eyebrow quirked with interest by the time she got to his face.
“Hi,” she said and plunked the mop into the bucket with a wet squelch. “I haven’t seen you around here before. Tourist?”
Shepherd blinked at her for a moment. He missed New York already. Nobody there cared where he was from or why he was there. Most of the time they didn’t even notice him. That was how he liked it. It was one reason he didn’t like taking jobs out of the city. Unfortunately, his wallet didn’t much care what he liked, and travel contracts paid better.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m here for a couple of weeks.”
The bucket was on wheels. It squeaked over the floor as the barista dragged it with her to the counter. She propped it against the wall and left it there as she grabbed a clean apron to pull on.
“Airbnb?”
Shepherd fished his wallet out of his pocket and wrinkled his nose as he considered the answer. “Kinda?”
The barista—Emily, from her name tag stitched onto the apron—leaned one hand on the bar. She cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows.
“That’s the sort of thing you should really be sure of,” she said lightly. “What would you like? Today’s special—”
“I saw,” Shepherd interrupted her. “No. Thanks. Just a vanilla latte. To go.”
She nodded, grabbed a cardboard coffee cup from beside the till, and turned her back to get to work on his order. Once she had the grounds slotted into the espresso machine, she looked back over her shoulder at Shepherd.
“The soup of the day is Bloody Mary and Pumpernickel,” she said, pointing to the big, silver tureen being warmed over gas on the counter. “If you’re hungry.”
About the Author
TA Moore is a Northern Irish writer of romantic suspense, urban fantasy, and contemporary romance novels. A childhood in a rural, seaside town fostered in her a suspicious nature, a love of mystery, and a streak of black humour a mile wide.
Coffee, Doc Marten boots, and good friends are the essential things in life. Spiders, mayo, and heels are to be avoided.
Author Links
Blog/Website | Facebook | Twitter
Instagram | Newsletter Sign-up | TikTok
