Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

Allie flashed her palm. “I can’t take money for interceding with the spirits on your behalf. It’s bad juju. However”—she gestured at a tray of sticky buns—“I’ve heard Romain men are fond of these.”

Shannon grinned in understanding. “I’ll take them all.”

After Allie boxed up the order, she taped her business card to the top. “I cater,” she said. “Tell your friends.”

“Will do.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Allie scooped up her chicken bones, folded her mat, and returned the supplies to their rightful place beneath the counter. She couldn’t help feeling a needling of jealousy for Shannon and JP. Maybe they needed a push to get them started, but at least the foundation was there. They loved each other.

Allie wanted that for herself. She was tired of mixing love potions and gris-gris for everyone else while remaining the eternal bridesmaid—figuratively speaking, of course. She didn’t have any close friends to ask her to stand up beside them in church, and her sister was no closer to holy matrimony than Allie was.

With a sigh, she stepped from behind the counter and strode outside, making sure to prop open the front door so she could hear the phone. After inhaling the sweetness of cinnamon and vanilla all morning, Allie found the humid summer air smelled too sharp, like a mingling of garbage and car exhaust.

And the heat!

Allie’s mama and daddy, God rest their souls, used to say South Louisiana in August was hotter than a two-pricked goat in a pepper patch. Allie’d survived twenty-six of these summers, and she’d never gotten used to it. She shut the door, figuring she’d rather miss a phone call than air-condition the whole street on her dime.

She took a moment to fasten her heavy curls into a twist, closing her eyes in relief when a breeze cooled the back of her neck. When she opened her eyes again, she saw a stunning face that had her stomach dipping into her bikini briefs—a face she couldn’t seem to banish from her most secret fantasies, no matter how much distance or time hung between them. Unfortunately, she repelled him like they were the same ends of a magnet—for every step she took forward, he took one back.

It wasn’t fair.

“Ladies,” Marc Dumont said with a cautious tip of his head. His gaze darted to the other side of the street, revealing how badly he wanted to cross it and get away from her. Some things never changed.

Shannon fired a glare at Marc before turning on her heel and stalking away without another word. He’d probably broken her heart, a virtual rite of passage for half the girls back home, Allie included. Junior year, he’d dropped her like a Crisco-coated stone after a single kiss, just a teasing brush of lips that had left her hungry for the next nine years.

So unfair.

Allie couldn’t help glancing at his mouth when she said, “It’s been a while. You look good.”

Too good—tanned and toned in all the right places. He’d grown out his hair so the chestnut waves nearly brushed his shoulders. It gave him a dangerous edge, especially when paired with the few days’ growth along his steely jaw. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his Levi’s and grinned, drawing out the cleft in his chin.

“So do you.” The low timbre of his voice gave her dirty thoughts. “Real good.”

Was it just her eager imagination, or was that a spark of lust in his gaze? Her pulse quickened at the possibility that he’d overcome his aversion to her. Something in the slow, easy way Marc moved told her not even a brown sugar pecan scone could hold a candle to a night in his bed.

Maybe it was time to get serious and find out—to go after what she wanted instead of wishing for other people’s happily-ever-afters. It was worth a shot. She didn’t have any appointments for the rest of the day, and her apartment was right upstairs.

“Thanks.” She hitched a thumb at her shop. “Want to come inside and catch up? It’s awfully hot out here.”

No shit. It was hot out here all right—in a way that had nothing to do with the brutal Louisiana sun. Marc glanced at the sign hanging above Allie’s camelback store. THE SWEET SPOT: SOMETHING TO TEMPT EVERY SAINT IN NEW ORLEANS. He was no saint, but he was sure as hell tempted. A man would have to be gay, castrated, or dead not to sport wood around Allie Mauvais.

She swept the back of her hand across her forehead, then blotted her flushed olive cheeks. One black curl escaped her twist and sprang free, refusing to be tamed . . . just like all Mauvais women. She looked like a wild Gypsy who’d just rolled out of bed with her lover, and when she locked those mismatched eyes on him, Marc’s jock twitched.

Damn. He’d like to inch up the hem of that short denim skirt and find her sweet spot.

But Marc never would. Not even he was that stupid.

“Maybe another time,” he lied.

He had no intention of spending a moment alone with her. He’d learned his lesson back in high school. Against his pawpaw’s advice, Marc had asked Allie to junior prom. He’d kissed her that night and had awoken the next morning to boils beneath his boxers. Pawpaw always said sex with a Mauvais woman would rot your pecker, and after that incident, Marc wasn’t taking any chances with his manhood.

Why risk it?

“Sure, another time.” When she arched to stretch her lower back, her breasts strained against the front of her thin white T-shirt, revealing the lacy pattern of her bra. Lord have mercy. “How’s your family?” she asked, lips twitching in a smile as she caught him staring. “I heard you’re going to be a big brother again.”

“Yep, in December.”

“How many kids does this make for your daddy?”

“Six.” With five different women, but he didn’t need to tell Allie that. She probably knew better than anyone.

According to legend, it was her great-great-grandma who’d cursed his family, vowing the Dumont men would never be lucky in love. It must’ve skipped a generation, though, because Marc was real good at getting lucky. Some might say an expert. He had women all over the parish—willing women who didn’t ask for more than a night of sweaty, tangled flesh and a quick good-bye. And unlike his dad, Marc had enough good sense to keep it wrapped. So what if a Dumont man hadn’t made it to the altar in almost a hundred years? If you asked him, that was a blessing, not a curse.

Allie took a step closer and fanned the back of her neck, filling his senses with the candied scent that clung to her body. It made him want to lick her throat to see what she tasted like.

“Been behaving yourself?” she asked.

“Only by default.” Marc retreated a pace. “I’m taking over the Belle. She keeps me pretty busy.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Your daddy’s retiring?”

Marc shrugged. “Had to happen sooner or later.”

But truth be told, the news had surprised him, too. In all the years Marc had spent working aboard his family’s riverboat, his old man had never found a nice word for him, never clapped him on the back for a job well done or given any indication that he’d trust Marc with the Dumont legacy. When he’d deeded over the Belle, he’d left Marc with seven words: She’s yours now. Don’t muck it up.

The old man neglected to disclose how much work the Belle needed or how much it would cost. Or, more importantly, that he owed the waitstaff and cleaning crew two months’ back wages. But if everything went according to plan, the two-week Mississippi cruise he’d booked should draw enough income to pay off the bank.

Which reminded him . . .

“I should run.” He nodded toward the French Market Place. “There’s a lot to do before the next trip.”

“Good luck. Don’t be a stranger, baby.” She winked an eye—the one the color of aged bourbon—and pulled open the door to her shop. A blast of cool, delicious air rushed onto the sidewalk as she stepped inside, and Marc pulled it deep into his lungs while his mouth watered.

Damn, he wished he could stay, and not for a bear claw, either.

He peeked through the glass and watched the gentle sway of Allie’s hips, then exhaled in a low whistle. If only she weren’t a Mauvais.

Marc shook his head and strolled onward. For no real reason, he crossed to the other side of the street before continuing to the river.

Marc shielded his eyes and gazed at the love of his life. She was seventy-five years old, high maintenance, and she’d been ridden hard by thousands of men, but he’d never beheld a more glorious sight than the Belle of the Bayou.

Sunlight glinted off the solid brass roof bell, polished to a gleam by Marc’s own loving hand. You couldn’t see it from here, but his family crest was engraved deep into the metal, a testament to four generations of Dumonts who’d broken their backs to keep Belle riverworthy. The steam whistle perched nearby like an open-beaked eagle, ready to call travelers aboard for relaxation and adventure.

Marc took in all four white-railed decks, lined with arched windows and doorways, and pictured them teeming with guests, imagined the inimitable noise of conversation and laughter reverberating off the water. From there, his eyes moved upward to the twin black smokestacks and the pilothouse beyond, where he would soon stand at the helm for the very first time as captain.

Lord, he couldn’t wait.

Even though Belle threatened to drown him in a tidal wave of debt, he couldn’t deny the surge of pride beneath his rib cage every time he looked at her.

But there was work to be done. A rhythmic percussion of clunks pierced the air as workmen hammered at the oak paddle wheel, repairing damage from last season’s collision with a bridge. John Lutz had parked his familiar windowless van near the dock, which meant the mechanics were already in the boiler room. Now Marc needed to schedule the last round of interviews and meet with his managerial staff—his brothers and Pawpaw.