Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

Marc bent his mouth to her ear. “Sugar, I like you in my way.”

She pulled back and gave him a seductive grin. “Do you, now?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he said. “In fact, I was hoping we could talk about that.” His heart thumped and his palms were growing damp. “I’ve had a lot of fun these past couple weeks . . .”

“Me, too.”

“So . . .” he began, barely able to speak over the pulse pounding in his ears. “This might sound crazy, but hear me out. I think we should . . . um . . .” He trailed off, a sudden lump of fear rising in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but he lost his nerve and spat, “Hook up tonight.”

Oh, God.

Marc mentally smacked himself. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud.

“Hook up?” Allie asked with an arched brow.

“Sorry, hon. I’m an idiot. What I meant to say is that I really want to see you later.” He was still cringing at his own words when he picked up Allie’s suitcase. “Come on, let me walk you home.”

She nodded and slipped on her backpack, but kept darting sideways glances at him that made it clear how badly he’d ruined the moment. She wouldn’t let him hold her hand until they’d crossed the bow ramp into the dock parking lot, and even then, her fingers were stiff laced among his.

“Hey.” Marc pulled her to a stop and brought their linked hands to his lips. “Did I mention that I’m an idiot?”

When her lips curved in a sweet smile, Marc knew he was forgiven. “Yes, but it bears repeating.”

“I’m a complete moron. It’s a miracle I can walk and chew gum at the same time.”

“Then I’d better lead the way home.”

She linked her arm through his, and they strolled through the French Quarter at a leisurely pace.

While they continued another two blocks, Marc mentally rehearsed the words he hadn’t been able to say aboard the Belle. It seemed easy enough: Allie, I know we haven’t been together very long, but I think you should move in with me. God help him, if he slipped and asked for another hook-up, she’d probably want to cut out his tongue.

And he had big plans for that tongue.

When they rounded the corner and caught sight of the Sweet Spot sign, Marc steeled his resolve and repeated the words in his head. Move in with me. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

But that didn’t stop a sheen of perspiration from slicking his forehead.

Allie paused outside her shop and studied him. “Are you okay?” She pressed her fingers to his cheeks. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

“Fine,” he lied, holding open the door for her. “It always takes a few days to get my land legs after a trip.”

If she doubted his lame excuse, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she hurried inside and waved at her sister, who squealed with delight while bolting toward Allie with her arms stretched wide. The two embraced each other, bouncing on their toes as if they’d been apart for a decade.

When they finally separated, Devyn raked a gaze over Marc and pointed toward the street. “If you’re going to hurl, do it out there.”

Marc started to say that he wasn’t feeling sick, but the scent of freshly baked sugar cookies sent his stomach into a somersault. He set down the suitcase and swayed on his feet.

Allie checked him for a fever. “You’re not warm,” she said. “If anything, you’re a little chilled.”

Marc’s lips began to tingle, and a cold warning crept up the base of his skull. Something was wrong. It felt like every cell in his body was rioting against him. He took Allie’s hand and kissed it. He didn’t want to leave her, but he had to get out, fast. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

She watched him back toward the door, her expression unreadable. “Sure.”

“We’ll get together as soon as I tie up some loose ends on the Belle,” he promised.

The last thing he saw was the nod of her curly head, and then he was gone—out the door and across the street as quick as his legs could carry him. It was the damnedest thing, but as soon as he filled his lungs with the humid, exhaust-tainted air, his pulse slowed and his skin quit crawling.

What had happened back there?

Marc shook his head, listening for the rattle of loose parts. Had he imagined the whole thing? Or had he worked himself up and brought on an anxiety attack? He’d never experienced anything like it.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, providing the answer before it registered inside his brain. He heard the echo of Beau’s words inside his head: It seemed like something was keeping me from getting too close, like an emotional fence. As much as Marc wished he could deny it, there was only one logical reason for his reaction inside the Sweet Spot.

The curse was keeping him away from Allie.

“What the hell?” Devyn peered out the front window. “That boy tore out of here so fast, I’m surprised he didn’t leave burned rubber on the sidewalk.” She spun to face Allie and shook her head in confusion. “I thought you said it was going great.”

Allie shrugged off her backpack and let it thunk to the floor. “It was.”

“Did you get in a fight?”

“No.”

“Catch him with another woman?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Well, I can tell something’s off between you two.” Devyn picked up the neglected backpack and walked it behind the counter, where she stuffed it onto the shelf of voodoo supplies. “What’s the deal?”

Shoulders slumped, Allie helped herself to a cereal treat. She bit off a chunk and spoke with her mouth full. “He’s doing what all Dumonts do—pulling away before we get too heavy.” Then she repeated everything she’d told Ella-Claire. “He’s probably out there right now thinking he’s cursed.”

Devyn nodded. “It makes sense.”

Allie rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the energy for this. “For the hundredth time, there’s no hex on his family.”

“Of course there is.” When Allie opened her mouth to argue, Dev cut her off with a lifted palm. “Open your eyes, sis. The women in Marc’s family get married, but the men don’t. That’s more than a self-inflating prophecy—”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Whatever,” Dev said. “Memère knew what she was doing. Neither of us is as strong as she was, but I hear there’s a real mambo in the swamp. If we work together with his guidance, I think we can break the hex.”

Allie shook the treat at her sister. “Do you hear the crazy coming out of you?”

“Who’s crazy?” asked Dev. “Look, do you like this guy, or not?”

Allie resisted the urge to jut out her bottom lip. “I more than like him.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

“So badly it hurts.”

“Then let me help you reverse the spell.” Devyn grabbed the suitcase and wheeled it toward the storage room. While towing the suitcase up the stairs to the apartment, she asked, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Allie threw her sister a sarcastic look. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No.” Devyn opened the bedroom door and hauled the suitcase onto Allie’s bed. “But think about it—Marc believes in the curse, right?”

“Like gospel,” Allie said.

“So if he secretly believes the spell is real, to the point that he wouldn’t walk on the same side of the street with you, then it stands to reason he thinks you have powers.”

Allie nodded in agreement. “Most folks do.”

Wagging her brows, Devyn added, “Maybe even the strength to break the hex . . .”

The message sank in slowly, until Allie gasped in realization. “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

“Make him admit that the curse is real; then we’ll hold a cleansing ceremony to undo it. Even if the hex is fake—which it’s not—going through the motions might change that self-fulfilling prophecy you were talking about.”

It was an intriguing idea, one that Allie began to take seriously. Nobody understood the power of the human psyche better than she did. How many times had she bent the truth to help others—conveying false messages from “the spirits” to help her clients find a match or overcome their fears? Dozens, at least.

Why not offer herself the same service?

If she could convince Marc that she knew how to undo Memère’s hex, it might free him from his psychological hang-ups and allow them to be happy together. Marc cared for her—she knew it. Only fear stood in his way.

“You can mess with his head while I work on breaking the curse,” Devyn said. “One way or another, we’ll fix him. What have you got to lose?”

Allie could think of one thing: her self-respect.

Even though she didn’t believe in the otherworldly, common sense told her it was bad juju to begin a relationship with lies. But then she remembered how Marc had treated her like a booty call, asking for a hook-up. If she didn’t do something drastic, she’d suffer the same fate as every woman who’d come before her—another plaything to be discarded. This might be the only way to change him.

“I hate the thought of manipulating him,” Allie said, “like he’s just another teenager seeking a love charm.”

Devyn plopped down on the bed. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”

When Allie unzipped her suitcase one of Marc’s T-shirts peeked at her from beneath a pile of dirty laundry. She must have accidentally scooped it up during her rush to get packed that morning. She lifted the shirt to her face and pulled in a deep breath. It still smelled like his aftershave, and her body heated at the sensation.

“Okay,” she said, hugging the soft cotton to her chest. “Let’s try it.” She searched her luggage until she found Edward Dumont’s letter and handed it to Devyn. “And if we want Marc to admit that he’s cursed, this will do the trick in spades.”