Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

One corner of Beau’s mouth lifted. “Oh, that.”

“Yeah,” Marc said flatly. “That.”

Shrugging, Beau returned to his work. “What can I say? I’m an affectionate kind of guy.”

“Affectionate, my ass.” Marc darted a glance out the open door to make sure nobody was within earshot. He lowered his voice to deliver a stern warning. “Just remember you’re here to scramble the eggs, not fertilize ’em.”

Apparently, Beau thought that was the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard, because he broke into a heaving guffaw. He tossed down his knife and clutched his belly and doubled over, the annoying jackass. His braying reverberated off the walls, prompting Marc to close the galley door.

“Yuk it up all you want,” Marc said, scooting aside the canister of flour that doubled as a doorstop. “I’m not screwing around.”

“Shit, man.” Using a handful of his T-shirt, Beau blotted his watery eyes. “You gotta warn me next time you drop a one-liner like that. I could’ve lost a finger.”

Speaking of fingers, Marc raised an extra-special one at his brother to send a message not even he could misinterpret. “Keep your fly zipped. Or I might not wait for the next port to kick you off the boat.”

“Keep it zipped, huh?” Beau folded his massive arms over his equally massive chest and stared down his nose at Marc. “You gonna follow your own orders, Captain?”

“Of course I am,” Marc said. And since he’d never technically unzipped around Allie, it was true. “This is business.”

“Uh-huh.” Beau’s tone made it clear he didn’t buy what Marc was selling. He tapped an index finger against the corner of his lips. “You’ve got something right here. I’m no expert, but I think it’s lipstick.”

Marc scrubbed a fist against his mouth. When he pulled back his hand, Allie’s bright coral gloss stared back at him, proving his brother right.

Shit.

A low chuckle shook Beau’s chest. Nodding, he used his hand like a gun and fired it at Marc’s heated face. “Busted.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No? Were you trying on her makeup, then?” Beau immediately flashed a palm. “Not that there’s any shame in that. I don’t judge.”

Maybe Marc should make good on that promise to dump his brother overboard.

“I’ve been gone a while,” Beau said, “but I still know you up one side and down the other.” Retrieving his knife, he approached the cutting board, but ignored the onions in favor of studying Marc with a critical eye. “Never seen you like this before, though.”

Marc knew he should let it go, but curiosity took control of his vocal cords. “Like what, exactly?”

“Whipped.” A satisfied grin unfurled across Beau’s lips. “Harder than a rented mule.”

“Bullshit,” Marc said with a dismissive wave. He wanted Allie—no use lying to himself—but that didn’t mean he was pussy whipped. It was attraction, plain and simple. “Maybe all those years of playing football rattled your brain.”

“Hey, I took a few whacks to the noggin, but I can still tell Allie’s got you sprung.” Beau turned his gaze to the cutting board and began chopping onions at the speed of sound. “I get it, little brother,” Beau went on. “Those Mauvais women have a way of sneaking inside your head when you’re not looking, then digging in and never letting go.” His blade never slowed, but Beau’s voice took on a softer tone—one that sounded an awful lot like regret. “I’d know.”

Marc dipped his chin in shock. “You mean Devyn? I thought she was a fling.”

Beau huffed a dry laugh. “So did I.”

“Wait a minute.” Marc shook his head skeptically, pointing his water bottle at his brother. “You’re telling me that Beau Dumont—the guy who supposedly lost his virginity to the Playmate of the Year—can’t get over Allie’s ice queen sister?”

“Hey, that totally happened,” Beau said, jabbing a finger at Marc. “I was big for my age, and Miss July thought I was eighteen.”

Marc rolled his eyes. Beau was still big for his age.

“And if Dev turned out prickly,” he continued, “it’s probably my fault, not hers. I screwed her over pretty hard.”

“Damn,” Marc swore under his breath. Devyn Mauvais. He’d have never guessed it. But the more Marc thought about his brother’s ill-fated fling, the more he began to wonder if they’d experienced any anomalies during their . . . well, private time. “So,” Marc began. “Did . . . uh . . .” He trailed off, drawing a sudden blank.

“Did uh what?” Beau asked.

What was Marc supposed to say? Did the bed catch fire the first time you touched her? Was Pawpaw right—did your junk fall off afterward? Did you break out in boils south of the border? Each question on Marc’s tongue sounded more absurd than the last.

“The old legend,” he finally said. “About the hex on our family . . .”

“What about it?”

Marc studied his shoes. “Did you ever get the feeling it was real?”

Beau didn’t answer at first, but once he’d finished dicing his onion, he set down his knife and huffed a sigh. “Honestly? Yeah, I did.”

“Really?” Marc asked. “Why?”

“Can’t say for sure.” Beau lifted a shoulder. “It seemed like something was keeping me from getting too close, like an emotional fence. Or hell, maybe I was just wasn’t ready. But I do know one thing.”

Marc nodded for him to go on.

“If I get another chance, I won’t quit so easily.” Beau grabbed another onion and picked up his knife. “I’ll go after what I want, curse or no curse.”

The response didn’t alleviate Marc’s confusion, but he felt relieved knowing that Pawpaw had exaggerated the consequences of tangling with a Mauvais. If nothing else, at least his manhood was safe.

“But it’s different for you,” Beau added. “I’m not in charge of the family business, and Dev isn’t my employee. You’ve got no place chasing Allie’s skirt.”

Marc jerked his gaze to Beau’s while his blood pressure hitched up a notch. Less than an hour on board, and already the pissing contest had begun. He should have known better than to assume they could have a peaceful conversation about women.

“No, you’re not in charge,” Marc agreed. “So go ahead and get that through your thick skull before we go any farther.”

Beau snorted in derision. “I heard about the jazz singer.”

“Yeah?” Marc said. “Then you probably heard I never laid a hand on her. That was Alex and Nicky’s doing.”

“What do you expect from two horny college kids, especially when you set the example for them? You’re captain now. It’s time to—”

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” Marc interrupted. “That Daddy made me captain and not you.”

Beau scoffed. “I don’t want your job.”

“Of course you don’t—that would require you to stick around.” Marc made a noise of contempt. “You want to give the orders and leave the work to the rest of us. Well, we’ve got it covered. Just do your job, and I’ll cut your paycheck. Then you can disappear again.”

Beau gritted his teeth and fell silent, but the redness rising into his face said that Marc had plucked a nerve. Good. It was about time someone took him down a peg.

But despite that, Marc couldn’t take pleasure in delivering the perfect blow. If anything, he felt worse than before. He must be going soft.

The galley door swung open, and Allie drifted inside wearing a pair of hip-hugging khaki pants and a boob-hugging staff polo shirt.

She stopped short at the sight of Marc, probably wondering why he was in the galley instead of the casino, where he belonged. The Texas Hold’em tournament would begin soon, and if his head were screwed on right, he’d be helping Nicky with the last-minute preparations, not frozen in place and mentally undressing her.

“I should go,” Marc said, more to her than to Beau. “The tourney starts in a few hours.” But despite that fact, he couldn’t seem to leave the kitchen. “Lots of loose ends to tie up.”

“Mmm,” she agreed, stopping to brush past him, never mind the six square feet of open space between Marc and her workstation. Her pink nails skimmed across his chest, leaving behind chills everywhere she touched. “And I need to make dessert.” She peeked up at him, her lips still slightly swollen from their kiss. “I’m in the mood for something extra sinful—maybe a double-chocolate torte to add to the dessert buffet. What do you think?”

From nearby, Beau made a mock gagging sound. “Quit dancing around each other and shut up with that mess. I’ve got a weak stomach.”

This coming from the two-time Fried-Pickle Eating Champion.

But he had a point. It was time for Marc to clear his head of Allie’s perfume and see to the tournament. There was work to be done. No matter what his brother said, Marc wasn’t whipped. Not even close.

The Belle came first—she was the only lady in his future.

“So, did you take a three-hour tour on the SS Manwhore yet?”

Devyn’s acerbic voice sounded even sharper through the cell phone, but the effect brought a smile to Allie’s lips. She could picture her sister leaning against the back wall of the Sweet Spot, gripping one hip and glaring at any customers who dared to interrupt her call. But crankiness notwithstanding, Allie missed her sister like crazy. Growing up, she and Dev had been more than siblings. The avoidance of their superstitious classmates had made them best friends, too.

“Or,” Dev continued, “have you finally regained control of your brain?”

Allie kicked off her kitchen clogs and reclined on the bed. As soon as her body sank into the mattress, her back muscles groaned in relief, thankful for a moment’s reprieve after she’d spent all day on her feet. “I’m going to ignore that last question, since you’re running the shop for me and all.”