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Rachel rubs the towel over Hazelnut’s ears, earning a disgruntled look. “It was really nice of him to take care of you when you were sick.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you for giving him my address,” I warn her, lathering shampoo into Charleston’s fur. He pants approvingly and licks my wrist. Charleston loves bathtime.

“Yes, you have,” Rachel says happily. “You can’t stay mad at me. And I did the right thing—you needed help. I had literally no one else to call, and I was physically incapable of getting to you myself. And look how it turned out! He took care of the Pack. He brought Miriam over.”

I hate that she’s right.

“I think he’s the perfect fit,” Rachel says. “Way better than those other two guys from the plus-one list. You should call him and tell him you changed your mind.”

I give her a look like she’s sprouted three heads. She quickly backtracks.

“Not call, of course,” she says. “Text. You should text him.”

“No.”

“What if we made it like a group thing? We could all three of us meet up and talk. I could help facilitate.”

The last thing I need is Rachel seeing me around Agustín. I’m fairly certain she’ll hear my pulse kick into a higher gear and know it’s not just my usual anxiety. That it’s something else.

And there it is. The crux of the matter. I understand attraction is a very normal thing for normal people. But I loathe it. Attraction sits so uncomfortably in body when I’m already uncomfortable. I have all these physical reactions to Agustín’s presence: My mouth starts to water, my skin itches, my stomach clenches.

And the worst of it is, that little sliver of sunlight I keep trying to squash wants more of it. It’s undermining me at every turn.

“He won’t want to talk to me,” I mumble, trying not to think of the text he sent just last night when he asked if we could talk. “I yelled at him.”

Charleston starts to croon his happy bathtime song as I lather his chest, running my hands down his front legs to clean his paws.

“I think that’s progress,” Rachel says, holding Hazelnut in a death grip, determined to get her as dry as possible before releasing her. The Colonel waits patiently for his turn. He always goes last. “When was the last time you yelled at anybody?”

“I’m not sure we can count me being a dickhead as progress,” I point out.

“Progress has many forms,” Rachel says piously. She finally releases Hazelnut, who shakes out her fur one last time right in Rachel’s direction, then trots out of the room. I hear her doing zoomies in the living room, her little feet pattering back and forth on the carpet.

I rinse Charleston off and Rachel grabs a clean towel. “Is Pip getting a bath?” she asks.

“No. He’s in the decompression room,” I say. I haven’t told Rachel how good Agustín was with him. She’s already got her pompoms out for Team Agustín, and I don’t need to give her any more ammunition. I’ve talked to Pip in very bad Spanish, and he does respond to it—at least, I can finally get his harness on for walks now. But he still hides out most of the time.

“So … should we look at the plus-one list again?” Rachel asks. I don’t need to be Poirot to detect the despondency mixed with panic in her voice. And I can’t go on any more dates. This stupid curse is going to ruin both our lives.

Maybe Agustín and I could just arrive at the wedding independently. Yes! Good plan. No talking or contact until October. I can assuage Rachel’s fears of being cursed, I can do my part as maid of honor, but until then, no more hot-chocolate smiles or kind eyes or dimples. Or luxurious thick black hair that my fingers ache to—no! None of that, thank you very much. Stomach, you can stop clenching now.

This is the perfect solution. I decide to ignore the fact that I’m still me, and there will still be five hundred guests at this wedding, and I will have to make a speech in front of them. I can deal with that later. But before I get a chance to tell Rachel my brilliant new plan, the doorbell rings.

We freeze, staring at each other.

“Is that him?” she asks excitedly, echoing my own thoughts but with a wholly different tone.

“It’s probably Miriam,” I say, my voice shaky. I hand Rachel a wet Charleston and stand on trembling legs. My pulse hammers in my temples as I walk down the hall to the front door. There’s a war raging inside me. That stupid sliver of sunlight brightens, hoping it is him. That I get to see those warm coffee-brown eyes again, that I can be on the receiving end of one of those enormous smiles that lights up his whole face.

The other part of me is freaking out, the hot shame at how I behaved bubbling up like lava. The Wheel spins and spins and spins as I reach for the doorknob.

I’ve worked myself up into such a frantic state that I’m shocked when it’s not Agustín on my doorstep.

It’s the woman with the two little kids from 9C holding a blue Le Creuset casserole dish. She wears a pair of white capri slacks and a peach-colored sleeveless blouse, a string of pearls around her neck, her brunette bob curling perfectly at her jawline. My first thought is that she’s at the wrong apartment.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “Eloise, right?”

There goes that theory.