Publisher Description

When all signs point to heartbreak, can love still be a rule of the road? A poignant and romantic novel from the author of Bittersweet and Twenty Boy Summer. Jude has learned a lot from her older sisters, but the most important thing is this: The Vargas brothers are notorious heartbreakers. She's seen the tears and disasters that dating a Vargas boy can cause, and she swore an oath--with candles and a contract and everything--to never have anything to do with one. Now Jude is the only sister still living at home, and she's spending the summer helping her ailing father restore his vintage motorcycle--which means hiring a mechanic to help out. Is it Jude's fault he happens to be cute? And surprisingly sweet? And a Vargas? Jude tells herself it's strictly bike business with Emilio. Her sisters will never find out, and Jude can spot those flirty little Vargas tricks a mile away--no way would she fall for them. But Jude's defenses are crumbling, and if history is destined to repeat itself, she's speeding toward some serious heartbreak...unless her sisters were wrong? Jude may have taken an oath, but she's beginning to think that when it comes to love, some promises might be worth breaking.

Author Biography

Sarah Ockler is the bestselling author of #scandal, The Book of Broken Hearts, Bittersweet, Fixing Delilah, and Twenty Boy Summer. Her books have received numerous accolades, including ALA's Best Fiction for Young Adults, Girls' Life Top 100 Must Reads, Indie Next List, and nominations for YALSA Teens' Top Ten, and NPR's Top 100 Teen Books. She lives in Washington with her husband, Alex. Visit her at SarahOckler.com and find her on Twitter and Facebook.

Excerpt from Book

The Book of Broken Hearts Chapter 1 The law of probability dictates that with three older sisters, a girl shall inherit at least one pair of cute shorts that actually fit. Agreed? Bzzz! Thank you for playing! Please try again. If these things could talk, they''d be all, Hi! We''re Araceli''s old cutoffs! And I''d go, Congrats on fulfilling your destiny, because you totally cut off circulation to the vital female organs! High fives! Actually, they were so tight up in there that if they could talk, it would sound more like, Umph mphh mphh hrmm. What? Exactly. "Ready to do this?" I killed the engine and smiled at Papi across the front seat. He didn''t say one way or the other, just squinted as I leaned over to do my lip gloss in the rearview. "You look old, mi querida." "Says the guy who microwaves his socks?" "They were cold." He shrugged. Seriously. Like I was the crazy one in this operation. "Lucky you didn''t start a fire." I hopped out of the truck and hooked the leash on Pancake, our golden retriever, who was suddenly doing this shake-rattle-and-roll dance with his dog booty--pretty adorable. I de-wedged my sister''s ex-denim and turned back to Papi. "Ever hear of dressing the part? If they take us seriously, maybe we won''t get screwed." He appraised Araceli''s shorts and the strategically ripped Van Halen tee I''d pilfered from Lourdes''s castaways. "Jude Catherine Hernandez. I''d like to see anyone ride a motorcycle in that outfit." I stifled an eye roll. Viejito hadn''t ridden a bike in thirty years. I, on the other hand, was totally up on this stuff. I''d bookmarked practically every Sturgis video diary ever posted, and thanks to a few Red Bull-and-Oreo-fueled YouTube all-nighters, I was approaching expert status in the vast and shadowy realm of motorcycle culture. Leather, chains, and flagrant bralessness? Bring it. Papi squinted at me again. "You look like--" "Your favorite daughter? Tell me about it." I slipped an arm around his waist. Aside from my unequivocally pro-undergarment stance, I felt at least 87 percent biker-babe legit as I navigated Fifth Street, shoulders tucked neatly under the arm of a man old enough to be my father. Okay, in all fairness, he was my father, but still. Manufactured authenticity? Phrase of the day, people! "Duchess Custom Cycles." Papi read the sign just as I caught our mismatched reflection in the glass. He''d insisted on wearing an insulated flannel shirt and his complimentary THANKS FOR SUBSCRIBING TO THE WESTERN CHANNEL, PARDNER cowboy hat, despite the fact that it was five hundred degrees outside, and I would''ve gotten more coverage from a skein of yarn and some duct tape. Sweet Jeremiah Johnson, what a pair! Papi opened the door, and I hobbled in with Pancake, still trying to coax out those unforgiving shorts. People probably thought I had some kind of medical issue, which was ironic considering the whole reason I''d gotten myself into this rollicking high-plains adventure in the first place. Despite its royal moniker, Duchess met my research-supported expectations. Dusty. Grimy. Wallpapered with scantily clad women draped over motorcycles. I so blended in, but once the door shut behind us, my nose was assaulted by the tang of motor oil and sweat, and my mind flashed through all the things I should''ve been doing the summer after graduation: dorm-supply shopping. Summer theater at Upstart Crow. Sipping frozen Java Potions at Witch''s Brew and flirting with the East Coast kayakers who flooded Blackfeather, Colorado, every June. Papi''s warm hand on my shoulder tugged me back to reality. We''d reached the service counter. A glass door behind it offered a view of the garage, a wide concrete space scattered with bike parts and rags and grease-smudged mechanics. The guy who emerged through the door had a small mouth hidden behind a dried blond shrub of a goatee that made me think of the tumbleweeds that cruised Old Town all summer. He wiped his hands on a dingy cloth as he greeted us, eyes lingering judgmentally on my shirt. Jeez. I guess Pancake was just being nice when he gave my outfit the patented three-bark approval this morning. "We need some info on restoring a vintage panhead," I said. "And a mechanic who can work at our place. Blackfeather Harley thought you could give my dad a better deal." The guy''s smile warmed when I said "dad," and I relaxed. But only a little, since my shorts were still trying to ride off into the sunset via Butt Cheek Pass and it was a challenge to stand still. "We can sure try, darlin''." He spoke around a gnawed-up toothpick that had probably been in his mouth since the seventies. "Name''s Duke. Whatcha got?" "Sixty-one Duo-Glide. Bought her in Buenos Aires from the original owner in seventy-eight." Papi rattled off the specs, right down to the odometer reading and the customizations he''d done before he biked through the homeland when he was seventeen. The story was a sock rocker for sure--I hadn''t even heard it all yet--and Duke''s face lit up at the telling. Adventurous. Daring. Totally badass. This was the Bear Hernandez everyone knew and loved. Not the guy cooking his socks or forgetting the way home from work. Papi''s eyes shone as he spoke, and my heart thumped hard behind Eddie Van Halen''s face. The old man was still in there somewhere--I knew it. The bike would bring him back. We just had to get her running again. A few replacement parts, paint job, good as new. I handed over my cell to show Duke the picture. "Wow," Duke said. "You had her in storage all this time?" "S

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