* * *

Marc stifled a yawn and poured himself another Folgers refill. He usually stopped after one mug, but that was pre-Allie, back when he’d been able to sleep at night. Now insomnia was his only bed partner. Each evening was the same: as soon as he’d doze off, Marc would awake shivering—never mind that his apartment was hot enough to fry okra—feeling lost and confused, like something was missing.

Or rather, someone.

Three days had passed since he’d seen the woman responsible for the bags under his eyes, though not for lack of trying on his part. Each of his phone calls to her had mysteriously dropped, even when he’d used a different line. Refusing to be deterred, he’d visited her shop a dozen times, only to be told that he’d “just missed her.” During his last drop-in, the doorknob had shocked him—hard.

It was as if the universe wanted to keep them apart, which made no sense. Assuming the curse was to blame, why had the spirits allowed him to make love with Allie aboard the Belle, when all he’d wanted was dirty, no-strings-attached sex? To punish him now that his intentions were honorable seemed backward. But then again, so did hexing a whole lineage of men for a crime they didn’t commit.

The doorbell chimed, drawing his eye to the stove’s digital clock. Marc grunted. His friends knew better than to call on him at seven thirty in the morning. He was still in his underwear.

“Just a minute,” he hollered while jogging to his bedroom to pull on yesterday’s clothes. On his way to the foyer it occurred to him that Allie might have come to visit, and his heart leapt painfully in anticipation of glimpsing her face. He threw open the door with a smile already in place . . . which quickly drooped into a frown.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

Ella-Claire thrust out her tongue. “Don’t look so happy to see me.”

“Sorry. I thought you were Allie.” He stepped aside to welcome his sister. “I haven’t talked to her since the day we docked.”

“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise already?” As she always did, Ella kicked off her shoes at the door. “That was fast, even for you.” She slid him a sideways glance. “What did you do to her?”

Marc held both hands forward. “Nothing, I swear.”

She answered by gripping one hip and giving him the look.

“Honest,” he said. “I was going to take your advice on that whole ‘grand gesture’ thing, but the timing wasn’t right. And I haven’t been able to get ahold of her since.”

“Huh,” Ella said. “That’s too bad. But on the bright side . . .” She raised a white paper bag. “I brought beignets.”

“Thanks.” He took her offering and peeked inside to find she’d already eaten one. “To what do I owe the doughnuts?”

Ella wandered a few steps, which brought her into his modest living room. She took a seat on the arm of his black leather sofa and scanned the bookshelves along the far wall, where his collection of Blu-rays vastly outnumbered books.

“I’m having a girls’ weekend at my place,” she said. “Mind if I borrow some movies?”

“Knock yourself out.” Marc swept a hand toward the shelves while striding toward the kitchen. “I’m going to eat my beignets while they’re still warm.”

He’d just sat down at the table and lifted a fritter to his mouth when the doorbell rang again. He dropped his breakfast and rushed into the foyer, licking the powdered sugar from his fingers. This time, he opened the door to a much less friendly face.

“You,” Devyn said accusingly.

Of course it was him. Who else was she expecting at his town house? He glanced behind her, expecting to find Beau or Allie. He couldn’t imagine why she’d come here alone.

“What are you doing to my sister?” she asked.

Marc’s hand tightened around the door. “What do you mean? Is something wrong with Allie?”

“You bet there’s something wrong. Every time you call, she goes into a trance.”

“A trance?”

“Yeah, you know . . .” Devyn made wide eyes while she staggered into his foyer like a zombie. “She blanks out.”

“And you think I’m doing it to her?”

She propped a hand on her hip and stared him down. “Probably not on purpose, but it’s still your fault.”

The curse. Marc didn’t need to say it aloud—he knew they were both thinking it.

“Well, maybe not your fault,” Devyn clarified, pulling a slip of paper from her handbag. The note was dingy and creased with age. “Your great-great-granddaddy’s fault.”

Ella-Claire joined them near the front door and used a Blu-ray to point at the note. “Hey, is that the letter Allie and I found?”

Devyn nodded.

“Don’t give it to him!”

Marc waved off his sister and took the note from Devyn, then unfolded the paper, finding a solid block of meticulously penned text on the inside. He glanced at the loopy signature of Silas P. Dumont, then at the salutation, which read Dear Edward, dated 1915. It was to his great-great-granddaddy from the man’s little brother.

At the same time, Devyn commanded, “Read it,” and Ella-Claire begged, “Don’t read it.”

Curiosity piqued, Marc skimmed the note.

Dear Edward,

I pray this letter finds you safe with our grandparents, for I must confess, I have reason to fear for your well-being. I did as you requested of me, brother, and visited the St. Bartholomew Chapel this evening to convey your deepest regrets to your betrothed. I daresay Miss Mauvais was quite vexed at the news. She tore the veil from her head and rent it in two while chanting all manner of vile curses. . . .


Marc’s eyes met Devyn’s, and he damn near dropped the note. “My great-great-grandfather was engaged to Juliette Mauvais?”

“And ditched her at the altar,” she said, lifting a haughty brow.

Marc couldn’t believe it. The man must have had oatmeal for brains to tangle with a woman like that—and then betray her.

“Keep going,” Devyn said.

Marc read ahead.

When I followed Miss Mauvais to the chapel graveyard to intercede on your behalf, she procured soil from our father’s grave. Raising her fist to the heavens, she vowed “Fickle love shall rot your family tree. None but purest faith will set you free.” I believe she means to enspell you, Edward, and I beseech you—seek the guidance of a priest, or either endeavor to earn Miss Mauvais’s forgiveness.

When he’d finished the letter, Marc glanced down and found his forearms prickled in goose bumps.

Devyn snatched the paper and shook it in his face. “Do you see what this means?”

“Yeah, I see.” Marc wished he could travel back in time and smack some sense into Edward Dumont. “I’m cursed because that coward sent a teenager to dump his fiancée.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Elle-Claire said. “The only curse is in your head—the limitations you’ve placed on yourself. If you want Allie, then go get her.”

“Oh, he’s hexed, all right,” Devyn said. “And he’s missing the big picture.”

Marc turned up his palms. “What’s to miss?”

“Think about it,” Devyn said. “You and Allie are the direct descendants of Edward and Juliette—star-crossed lovers—and the hundredth anniversary of their ruined wedding day is approaching. . . .” She trailed off expectantly.

“And?”

Devyn huffed a sigh. “Do you love my sister?”

Marc stiffened at the abrupt personal question.

“Well?” she demanded when he didn’t answer quickly enough.

“I think so.”

“And I’m pretty sure she feels the same way,” Devyn said. “I won’t lie—you’re not my favorite person in the world, but maybe you two are destined to break the spell.”

“Destined?” he asked. “What, like a cosmic do-over?”

Devyn shrugged. “If you want to think of it that way.”

It sounded like she’d been reading too many paranormal romance novels. “If it’s our destiny,” he said in a mocking tone, “to undo that old biddy’s magic, then why can’t I get within ten feet of Allie?”

Devyn tapped the letter against her chin and paced a circuit in the foyer. “Well, it’s probably not supposed to be easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. But the logical place to start is with me and Allie. Magic’s in our blood—if anyone can break the hex, we can.”

“Um,” interjected Ella-Claire. “Or you could just tell Allie that you love her and commit . . . like a normal person.”

He ignored his sister and spoke to Devyn. “You’re forgetting that I can’t get near her.”

Reaching up, she lightly smacked him upside the head. “So try harder, Dumont! This is my sister we’re talking about. She’s worth it.”

Marc rubbed his head and backed away from the shrew. But he couldn’t deny she had a point. Allie was special, and he wouldn’t let her get away—not without a fight.

“Fine,” he said. “Tell me what to do.”

* * *

At noon, Allie’s cell phone rang. Before she could reach it, Devyn snatched the phone from the counter and checked the screen.

“It’s Marc,” Dev said with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

But instead of handing the phone back to Allie, she answered the call and crinkled a handful of cellophane near the mouthpiece, then disconnected.

“I’m still not allowed to talk to him?” Allie asked.

“Patience, Grasshopper. Now that he can’t reach you by phone, he has to come over. He should be here in a few minutes.”

Allie sighed while sliding a tray of fresh muffins into the display case. “I feel like I’m trapped inside an episode of Scooby-Doo and we’re fixin’ to set a trap for Old Man Jenkins.”

“Just stick to the plan. Before long, the curse will be broken, and you can skip off into the sunset.” Holding up a finger, Dev clarified, “After you take me to Vegas.”