“Don’t worry,” Evie assures her. “He just reads and sulks.”

I stare out the bookshop window, watching Lucky straddle an old red motorcycle parked across the street in front of a building with a sign that says: NICK’S BOATYARD. REPAIR AND MAINTENANCE. Matching his tattoo, an actual black cat sits in a patch of sunlight inside the boatyard’s office window.

How could that be the same boy I knew? Impossible.

As he straps on his Lucky 13 helmet, Mom clears her throat, catching my attention.

“Nope. Don’t even think about it,” she warns me.

“I was just looking out the window, jeez.” Is my neck warm? Grandma Diedre needs to invest in some modern AC in this stuffy, old shop.

“The Saint-Martin love curse is stronger here,” Mom insists. “Look at our record in Beauty. My grandfather kept three mistresses in a hotel across town. My dad left my mom for a business deal in California. My sister Franny … well”—she turns to Evie—“you know what happened to your own mother.”

“Mom,” I say sharply. Ugh. Talk about foot-in-mouth disease, my mom has it.

“It’s fine,” Evie says.

But is it? Evie’s father died of a stroke last year. He spent a couple of days in the hospital but didn’t make it. The funeral was awful; that was the last time we were in town, in fact, just for a short time. Evie coped, but her mom kind of had a nervous breakdown and never really got over his death—and Mom thinks that’s why Grandma encouraged her to rent out their house and run off to Nepal, leaving Evie to move in with us in the above-shop apartment. Mom says Evie’s mom was always Grandma’s favorite. You would think two adult sisters with kids of their own would be long past the Petty Jealousy phase, but I guess it’s something you never grow out of.

“Regardless,” Mom says, a little embarrassed, “everyone in Beauty knows I got hit by the Saint-Martin curse too. Tried to leave town to outrun it and ended up a single thirty-six-year-old mom of a seventeen-year-old. Now just imagine what the curse will do to you here, Josie. Heartbreak city, that’s what.”

Before I can protest, Evie picks up her paperback pirate romance and waves it, several slender silver rings clinking together on her thumb and index finger. She exclusively reads historical romance books. Earls and governesses. Princes and governesses. Governesses and governesses. If it involves the moors and a gothic castle, even better. She recently made the decision to give up real-life love in exchange for vicarious romance on the page. “Relationship-free and zero regrets.” Or so she claims …

“Not here for relationships of any kind,” I inform both of them.

Never had one, never want one.