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Locals chat and top the little toasts with the mussel meat, tossing the shells into the lake. No one eats freshwater mussels, so all the saltwater mollusks and shellfish are typically imported from another state.
White wine is served to the adults, and the little kids and teenagers drink non-alcoholic apple cider in plastic flutes. It’s all very fancy.
All very intimidating.
Blue and white streamers blow in the wind from the tops of tents. A live band plays melodic music on violins and cellos, adding to the ethereal charm of today.
“Maybe if they were playing rock, I’d feel somewhat in my element,” I mutter to myself. “Is it hot out here?” I ask October.
“Hmm?” She’s busy eyeing the townspeople like she’s looking for successful prey.
I am so not made for this hunt.
I shed her coat and drape the thing over my arm.
October registers my growing fear. “They won’t bite you.”
“No, I’m pretty sure they’ll try, and I’m pretty sure I might bite them back.”
She almost smiles. “I’ll bite them first, sweets.”
I hope so.
Blushing at her nickname for me, I breathe in the crisp air. Clouds block the sun, and the wind’s nipping chill actually feels good against my black sweater. Today is just as I remember from childhood.
Lots of snide eyes on me.
And my total infatuation with October Brambilla.
Except there is one big difference, besides being twenty-four. Besides the ribbon around my wrist and lock in my pocket.
The difference lies with her.
October is carrying a dazzling crown made of beach glass and broken shells. She’s ribbon-less.
An easy way to spot “cursed” locals: they wear crowns at the Lock Ceremony. I’d say about 65% of the attendees are adorning handmade crowns. Anna Roberts and her mossy antler crown is seriously freaky.
She wears the imposing thing like she’s been dubbed Antler Queen.
Anna is Amelia’s uptight mom. She has deep, striking red hair that’d rival the Little Mermaid herself. Amelia only inherited a smidgen of her mom’s red hue in her own heap of brown.
I watch October keep her beach glass crown in her hand. Caution and unease somersault my insides. When she picked up the crown this morning, reality struck me like a lightning storm.
October is officially cursed.
That means she’s in the historical museum. One trip over to the famed Museum of Curses & Curiosities and I’d know exactly what happened to her.
Despite the urge to ditch the ceremony and Road Runner my ass over there, I struggle to go behind October’s back. A part of me hesitates to read about her curse in a book. I don’t want this town’s twisted version of what happened. I want to know from her.
But I also have bigger concerns than probing into October’s history.
Benito Brambilla, October’s twenty-nine-year-old cousin, is currently eyeing me like I’m a spoiled mussel in his pot.
“I’m going to pick Anna Robert’s brain,” October says, already on the move. “See if she’s hiding anything.”
“Should I…right,” I say to myself, watching my safety net just beeline with zero hesitation to the most intimidating woman on the beach. The Antler Queen herself.
That is October. Afraid of no one.
I exhale. “We have to split up, Zoey. They won’t tell October shit if I’m hovering. And…I’m talking to myself. Great.” I eye Benito again—or rather, Benny. I remember his nickname.
Fur coat splayed over my arm, I march my ass towards him with the best “I own this town” Brambilla impression.
He’s not impressed. “Zoey Durand.”
I hate how he says my name. Like I’m bottom-feeder scum. “Benny.” I force a smile.
His well-kept hair and wrinkle-free peacoat over a Polo is the classic upper-crest style in Mistpoint. The most I remember of Benny is that he was in Colt’s grade. And Colt complained about him.
All. The. Time.
Benny is an antagonistic asshole.
He’s obsessed with me.
Can the guy get a fucking life that’s not infatuated with mine?
Now I’m face-to-face with Benny, and if he’s still obsessed with Colt, then maybe he knows pertinent information that I might need.
He’s standing behind a big pot of bubbling broth. And he scoops mussels into a paper bowl, looking seconds from spitting in the food.
So I’m genuinely surprised when he hands me the mussels without hocking a loogie in the broth.
“Thanks,” I say with another tight smile. And I peek over at October. Several feet away, definitely out of earshot, she’s talking quietly with Antler Queen Anna. That’s her best friend’s mom. So clearly, she might have the best in.
“Aren’t you supposed to have a notepad?” Benny’s voice steals my attention.
“Uh…am I?” I make a confused face. What is he talking about?
He narrows his eyes. “Isn’t that what authors do? Jot down notes?”
Oh.
Fuck.
The fact that Benny already knows my cover story is a sign that the gossip networks are thriving more than ever.
I tap my temple. “I’ve got it all up here.”
His lip curls in a snide smile. “I guess taking notes doesn’t really matter, right? We all know you’re going to over-inflate that moldy-ass pub of yours.” He swings his head towards a sandy area where outdoor couches and chairs—brought over from everyone’s patios—circle a small, rocky lakeside firepit. Town royalty lounges there, mostly Brambillas and Roberts. But I also see Sheriff Carmichael and his wife among the group.
