Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

Her breath hitched, but instead of breaking into a sob, she locked her spine and peered down at him, square in the eyes. “So now that you know the truth, does it change anything?”

“Allie, please,” he said, splaying his hands like a beggar. “I honestly do care about you. Let’s slow down and talk this out. Maybe we should take a few days apart to—”

“I didn’t think so.” She licked her fingers and used them to extinguish the last candle. “Good-bye, Marc.”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he heard Allie turn and pick her way along the gravel path leading to the street, leaving him alone with nothing but the acrid burn of smoke in his nostrils to prove that this debacle had actually happened.

Glued to the ground, he knelt there and stretched an arm toward Allie’s retreating shadow. “Come back,” he called. “Please, Allie. If you’ll just listen . . .”

But she continued on her way until she disappeared from view, and that fissure behind his breastbone widened into a virtual black hole.

The night’s events seemed surreal. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

A reflective glimmer of moonlight drew his attention to Juliette Mauvais’s picture in its frame. The old biddy smiled down at him in sepia tones, her expression haughty, as if mocking his pain, and it occurred to Marc that on this centennial of the woman’s botched wedding day, it was a Dumont who’d been dumped at the altar.

How fitting.

If that didn’t prove the curse was real, nothing would.

It rained for the next five days, which suited Allie just fine. She didn’t have the will to leave her store anyway.

There was no place she wanted to go. Her body ached all over, and it took every ounce of strength to get dressed in the mornings. At first she’d thought she had the flu, but her thermometer had never registered a temperature above ninety-eight. Maybe it was broken, because her back muscles were throbbing and it was only noon. She leaned over the sales counter and rested on her elbows, sighing in temporary relief.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Devyn asked as she slid a tray of fresh cookies into the glass display case.

Allie stared out the front window, where rain fell in steady sheets against the glass. “I think so.”

A skeptical grunt said Devyn wasn’t convinced. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“I don’t know.” Allie retraced her steps from that morning, but her mind was foggy. “A ham biscuit from the corner store, I think.”

“No, that was yesterday.” Devyn reached into the case and handed over a brown sugar pecan scone. “Eat this—every last crumb. That’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Allie took a bite to appease her sister, but she noticed right away the flavor wasn’t right. She forced down her mouthful and inspected the scone. “There’s something wrong with this batch. It tastes like cardboard.”

“Let me see.” Devyn crammed half the scone into her mouth. Her eyes closed in rapture, a hand flying to her chest. “Oh, my God,” she garbled, “that’s better than sex.”

A breath caught at the top of Allie’s lungs. She’d once said the same thing, but that was before Marc had taken all her carnal expectations and turned them upside down. Now she was ruined—for men and desserts alike. She couldn’t stop her eyes from flooding with tears.

“No, it’s not,” she choked out. “Believe me.”

“Aw, sweetie.” Devyn popped in the last bite and wrapped an arm around Allie’s shoulders. She spoke around the chunk of scone. “There’s nothing wrong with this batch. You can’t taste it because that wanker killed your joy.”

Allie tipped her head against Devyn’s shoulder and let the tears fall. “I miss him so much.”

“I know,” Dev said, stroking Allie’s curls. “The wound is still fresh. Give it time to scab over.”

“Why hasn’t he called?” Allie had hoped Marc would at least make an effort to win her back. She wouldn’t have settled for anything less than happily-ever-after, but it would be nice to know he cared enough to try. “Why won’t he fight for me?”

Devyn turned and gripped Allie’s upper arms, then delivered a stern look. “Because he’s a Dumont, that’s why. It’s not in his nature to fight for love. He’s a runner.”

“But last week—”

“Look,” Dev interrupted, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but maybe this is Memère’s way of protecting you. As much as it hurts to let Marc go, better now than five years from now, when he’s saddled you with a bunch of kids and ditched you for a cocktail waitress half your age.”

Allie thought back to what Marc’s own sister had said: I’m not stupid enough to fall for a Dumont. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“Knock that off,” Devyn ordered. “You’re not the first woman to fall for the wrong guy, and you won’t be the last. This won’t kill you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

From atop the cash register, Allie’s cell phone chimed to announce an incoming text message. Instantly, her stomach lurched, and she scrambled for the phone in hopes of hearing from Marc. But when she swiped the screen and saw a note from her fruit supplier, all that false hope settled inside her, heavy and cold.

“What if it had been him?” Dev asked. “You know he won’t change. Why don’t you block his number?”

Logically, Allie knew her sister was right, but try telling that to her bruised heart.

“You need an intervention,” Devyn said. “No more schlumping around waiting for the phone to ring. Let’s go to Vegas.”

“But what about the store? It’s not even the weekend yet.”

“You won’t go bankrupt if you close up shop for a few days,” Dev told her. “Ask your staff to fill the standing orders and put a sign on the door that says you’ll be back Monday.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Well, yeah. That’s because it’s vacation, not rocket science.”

But Allie was so tired. She didn’t want to go to Vegas, or anywhere else for that matter, except upstairs to her apartment, where she could crawl beneath her covers and sleep until the pain was gone.

“Let me think about it,” she said.

Grumbling under her breath, Devyn let the subject drop and brought out another tray of fresh cookies.

A few minutes later, the front door opened and two women rushed inside, concealed by the red umbrella they shared. They shook off the rain and propped the umbrella in the corner to dry. Allie recognized one of them as Shannon Tucker, the woman who’d come to the Sweet Spot a few weeks ago for a love charm. Shannon’s limp blond locks dripped a trail down the front of her T-shirt, her rubber flip-flops squeaking with each forward step. She offered a wide smile, bedraggled but clearly happy.

And very much in love.

A slow grin formed on Allie’s lips. It seemed like forever since the last time she’d smiled, and it felt good. “I take it things went well with JP,” she said.

The two rain-soaked customers shared a squeal of delight as Shannon thrust out her left hand, displaying a sparkling diamond set in polished white gold.

“Engaged?” Allie asked, feeling a slight prickle of envy. “Wow, you two don’t mess around.”

A cherry blush stained Shannon’s cheeks. “When you know it’s right, why wait?”

Allie’s grin faded. She understood. “You want to start your journey together as soon as you can.” Unbidden, images of Marc appeared to her—the sinful smile that drew out the cleft in his chin, his chestnut waves tossing in the wind that rolled off the river. She could almost feel his fingers threaded through hers, but when she glanced down, all she saw was a lonely, naked hand.

“Exactly.” Shannon and her friend admired the ring. “And it never would have happened without your help.” She nodded at the other woman, a petite brunette with a pageboy haircut and bright blue eyes. “That’s why I brought Kimmy. She’s been with her boyfriend for five years, but he won’t pop the question. And he forgot her last three birthdays. We’re worried he’s checked out of the relationship.”

Allie glanced at Kim, who’d taken an abrupt interest in the floor tiles beneath her feet. “You want a love charm?”

“I guess,” Kim said to the floor. “Or a potion. Gris-gris, maybe. Whatever will make him stop taking me for granted.”

Sympathy pains tingled in Allie’s chest. Oh, honey, she thought. If I had that kind of power, I’d use it for myself. “Are you sure he’s the right one for you?” she asked instead. “Because if he doesn’t appreciate you while you’re dating, you can bet he won’t appreciate you once you’re married. Then you’ll have a whole new set of problems.”

Shannon pointed at the oak shelf beneath the cash register where Allie kept her voodoo supplies. “Can you read the bones and find out if he’s the one, like you did for me?”

Allie studied Kim’s downcast eyes and rounded posture. She’d seemed chipper enough until the subject had turned to her life, which indicated the woman lacked confidence. What she probably needed was to ditch her boyfriend and focus on herself for a while. With some prompting, Allie could lead her in that direction . . .

But she didn’t want to.

Allie had always taken pride in facilitating love matches or personal growth in others, but she couldn’t seem to muster the enthusiasm for it today. She was so tired—of everything.

“It would be nice to know,” Kim said, her gaze flickering up and down just as quickly.

What the heck. It wasn’t like Allie had anything better to do. “Okay.” She grabbed her Tupperware container of chicken bones and spread her mat on the counter, then launched into her usual spiel about the spirits rewarding true believers.