Cover reveal! Cursed Boys and Broken Hearts is a swoony contemporary romance from Adam Sass following a boy who is cursed to doom any romantic relationship—and the summer that changes everything. Coming to shelves July 16, 2024!

Grant Rossi is never getting a happily-ever-after.

Ever since he was a kid and made a wish on his family’s iconic Wishing Rose, his romantic relationships have been cursed to end. Following his most recent (and extremely public) dumping, Grant is languishing in a hot Chicago summer, abandoning his beloved design projects to sink back into depression. But when his family suggests spending the summer helping his aunt and uncle refurbish their beautiful but rundown B&B and vineyard—the home of the Wishing Rose that changed everything for him—Grant decides to accept. Maybe he can finally find a way to recover his creative spark…and break his curse. 

But things at the vineyard are not what Grant expects. The place is in almost total disrepair, and—even worse—the person his relatives hired to help is his former childhood crush, Ben—the first boy who broke his heart.  

As their chemistry sparks and the summer heats up, the wedge between them can’t be ignored. But while they race to restore the B&B in time for the beloved local rose festival, grumpy but lovable Ben starts to break through Grant’s carefully crafted defenses. Can Grant find a way to overcome his curse and open his heart, even when it’s broken?

Scroll down to see the cover and read a sneak peek. Remember to preorder your copy here!

Cover art: Anne Pomel, Cover designer: Kaitlin Yang

I design fashion. I design art. I do not design chintzy two-for-one flyers for my aunt’s failing B&B. Yet Mom still sent over the mockup of my aunt’s upcoming ad so she could make use of my “design eye.” But all I could see was a once-great destination spot offering massive discounts during their busiest season. That’s all anyone else will see, too. Two-for-ones through the whole summer? Even the Rose Festival in August? That festival is our crown jewel. Yet here my family is, admitting we can’t even give these reservations away.

On the off seasons, Vero Roseto’s rose garden and vineyard are crushed by unforgiving Illinois winters—totally deserted except for the most desperate tourist. And thanks to climate change, spring doesn’t exist anymore (vanished along with the visitors who used to seasonally escape to the vineyard). Summer is all Vero Roseto has—and summer is not enough to break even.

“Ma, there’s three exclamation points in this,” I say, looking over the abysmal ad. “Aunt Ro’s gotta cut it down to one or none.”

Over speakerphone, my mother grunts impatiently. “We just thought it was so drab without them! She wants people to know they’re excited.”

“Every time she adds an exclamation point, her desperation goes up a font size.”

Mom snorts. “You got judgmental in the city.”

I don’t blink. I just stare up at my nonmoving ceiling fan. My studio apartment is stifling in the early summer heat, but I don’t have the willpower to switch on the fan. My clothes lay on my body as heavily as an X-ray vest. My ratty gray T-shirt is due for a wash, but at least I can’t smell myself anymore. My nose has acclimated to the wretched sad boy fragrance that’s currently strangling this airless room.

Look at me. Two weeks out of graduating high school, and I’m already thriving.

The city has done wonders for me. Truly, so grato about it.

“Yep,” I say tonelessly. “I got judgmental in the city. Judgmental and sad.”

Over the phone, Mom clicks her tongue—my poor, pathetic son—and says nothing. For long seconds, we stew in silence. I’ve done the thing I’m not supposed to do: mention my depression. She lets me talk about whatever I want, but the truth makes her quiet. It reminds her of the meds I used to take—and should make an appointment so I can get back to taking. It’s nothing I’m embarrassed about, but she doesn’t like thinking of me needing them, like I have a terrible infection she’s doing her best to ignore, and I’m rudely reminding her of it.

“Grant,” she says, lowering her voice, “it’s almost been a year. There’s more than one boy in the world—”

“I thought you called to talk about this crummy ad.” Anger whips through my chest like a cobra. Guilt immediately follows, but I don’t take it back. If I can’t mention my sadness, she can’t mention my ex.

My heroic, romantic, sweetheart ex everyone fell in love with—his thousands of Instagram fans, my design program friends, and my family (who didn’t even meet him before I was dumped). They adored him—that sweet bunny and his new bunny boyfriend (the best friend he fell in love with) who couldn’t hurt a fly.

Except they hurt me.

But I don’t count. I’m a beast, not a bunny. A beast with baggage and a curse on my head where no relationship lasts longer than a month. When my ex and I were dating, he and I were the golden couple. Then he fell in love with someone else, and I had to go. But where was the sweet, simple fairy tale his followers demanded? From their point of view, our broken fairy tale wasn’t nuanced reality, it was just . . . my fault. But in reality, I’m a cursed boy, so where was this honestly gonna go anyway?

So, the bunnies get to keep their little dewdrop love story while the beast remains shut away in his dungeon. Just like in those fairy tales my ex tricked me into believing in.