“I hear you loud and clear, Cap’n,” Alex said. “I’ll bet the cleaning crew can use his help. There are always a few motion-sick passengers yakking in the halls on the first day.”

Worm groaned and muttered something under his breath, but apparently he knew better than to back-talk.

“C’mon,” Marc said, grinning at his kid brother. “Let’s go find you some man’s work.”

* * *

That evening, Marc changed into a clean dress uniform and combed his hair into a meticulous low ponytail for the formal dinner. He could smell the tangy, spicy aroma of caramelized chipotle chicken long before he entered the dining room. Once inside, he admired the presentation of tender chicken breasts and delicate chilies lacquered in orange glaze, his mouth watering in response.

Chef was one mean son of a bitch, but damn, the man could cook.

Marc assessed each table as he passed, greeting guests while assuring himself that their white tablecloths were starched to perfection, bone china was displayed properly above their platinum chargers, and silver was in the correct order from salad fork to soup spoon. The sounds of clinking crystal and easy conversation hung in the air, indicating a good time was being had by all.

Except the Gibsons.

Marc approached the newlyweds’ table bearing a gift—a complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage—but when he presented the champagne, Mrs. Gibson sniffed and declared, “We don’t drink.”

Marc groped for a response. Experience had taught him how to spot a teetotaler from a mile away, and this pair of thirtysomething neogothic redheads didn’t seem the type. The groom was sporting a visible neck tattoo above the collar of his dress shirt, and the bride had enough piercings in her face to trip a metal detector.

That’d teach him to judge a book by its cover.

“I apologize for the room mix-up,” Marc said. “Is there anything I can—”

“Did you know Eric McMasterson?” the bride interrupted.

“Captain of the North River Steamer?” Marc asked, once again taken aback. “Only by reputation. Why?”

“He was my grandpa.” The woman’s shoulders rounded forward, prompting her husband to reach across the table and smooth a consoling hand over hers. “I spent half my childhood on his boat before they shut it down. Of all the historic steamers left, yours is my favorite. I planned our whole wedding around this cruise. And now . . .” She trailed off with a sad sigh.

If that weren’t enough to make Marc feel like shit, a tear slid from the corner of her eye and plunked into her untouched garlic-mango rice.

Hell, what was he supposed to say to that—Can I get you some sparkling cider instead? Nothing short of snatching the honeymoon suite away from another couple would rectify the problem, and he couldn’t very well do that.

“Beg pardon,” said a familiar sultry voice from behind. “Are you the Gibsons?”

Marc turned to find Allie standing several paces back with a white bakery box cradled between her hands. She sashayed to the table, and Marc noticed half the heads in the dining room turn to watch the sleepy sway of her hips and the soft bounce of curls spilling wildly down her back. She’d removed her apron, but a dusting of flour on her polo shirt outlined its former shape. The effect drew his gaze to the clean red fabric stretched taut across her full breasts.

Mercy.

Even after twelve hours on her feet in those ugly white kitchen clogs, she looked so damned sexy Marc had to check the urge to adjust himself.

She placed the bakery box on the table and lifted the lid, revealing a miniature two-layer wedding cake iced in white buttercream. Dark pink piping encircled an elegant monogram of the couple’s initials, just elaborate enough to commemorate the occasion without going overboard. The scent wafted up from the table and filled Marc’s nose, and he pulled in a deep breath—sweet and sinful, much like the woman standing by his side.

“A little bird told me about the problem with the honeymoon suite,” Allie said to the Gibsons. She leaned in and lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “So I made this for you. It’s my secret recipe butter cake with chocolate ganache filling.” She added with a wink, “Don’t tell the other newlyweds, because they’re not getting one.”

Mrs. Gibson’s mouth had dropped open before she’d even glimpsed the cake. “Miss Mauvais?” she asked in plain disbelief.

Allie’s back stiffened and she blinked at the other woman as if trying to place her. “Uh, yes. Have we met?”

“You don’t remember me.” Despite that, the bride’s lips parted in a wide smile. “When I came to see you last year, you changed my life. You told me I had to believe to—”

“Receive,” Allie finished with a smile of her own. “Sure, now I remember.” She swirled a hand toward her own face. “But I didn’t recognize you with all this.”

“Oh.” Cheeks flushing, Mrs. Gibson touched one of her nose studs. “Well, you said to be myself, so as soon as I left your shop, I went for my first piercing.” She squeezed her husband’s hand. “That’s where I met Ryan.”

Still grinning, Allie shook her head in awe. “Then it was meant to be, honey. My mama, God rest her, used to say there are no accidents. Same goes for your suite. We might not understand it now, but there’s a reason you ended up where you did.”

“If nothing else,” the bride said, standing to embrace Allie, “at least I get to say thank you in person. That alone is worth it.”

When Allie returned the hug, tears welled in her mismatched eyes, clinging to her thick black lashes without spilling over. The sight brought a sudden heaviness to Marc’s ribs.

He’d never seen Allie cry, not even in the sixth grade when a substitute teacher had flung holy water on her. With her gaze glistening and flour tangled in her curls, she seemed so gentle and kindhearted—words no one would use to describe a Mauvais woman. But the evidence was right in front of him. Allie had baked this cake without being asked—after she’d run herself ragged all day in Regale’s kitchen.

Marc caught himself grinning at her, and he remembered his place, snapping into action.

He called for a server to assist the Gibsons in cutting their cake and summoned a photographer to capture a shot of the couple feeding each other the first bite. After a nonalcoholic toast to the newlyweds’ future, Marc left them to enjoy their meal. He peered around the dining hall for Allie, but couldn’t spot her.

Where had she run off to?

* * *

Allie gripped the cool metal railing, closing her eyes to savor the night air rolling off the river. She let the wind’s gentle fingers lift the heavy curls from the back of her neck while she trapped a lungful of fresh oxygen and blew it out, nice and slow, imagining all her frustrations leaving her body with that breath. Then she repeated the process, because one breath wouldn’t do.

Merde, what a day.

She’d dreamt of sharing a kitchen with Phil Regale since she’d watched him flambé a flawless Steak Diane on the Food Network a few years ago. Like all masters of the trade, he’d made it look easy, his instruments an extension of himself as he’d seasoned and seared that beef to perfection. She’d made it her goal to meet him, going so far as to drive to St. Louis for one of his restaurant openings, but she hadn’t been able to wiggle her way through the crowd to even shake his hand.

Now she wanted to wrap her hands around his coquilles.

And tug. Really hard.

One insult hadn’t been enough for him. All day long he’d lashed at her, undermining her authority with the kitchen staff by referring to her as “the captain’s squeeze.” Tell the captain’s back-swamp squeeze to get her oozing cobbler out of my oven! Then he’d used his imposing size to shoulder her out of the way when their paths crossed, and he’d “accidentally” knocked her ingredients to the floor three times.

The worst part? When he’d left to circulate through the dining room, she’d snuck a bite of his glazed chicken. It tasted so good she wanted to cry. And she didn’t cry easily. She’d learned to grow thick skin as a little girl.

What had this horrible man done to deserve such superior talent? Maybe she should have let him choke on that almond. Allie sighed and propped her elbows on the railing. Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t have done anything differently. She couldn’t stand to see anyone suffer, not even Phil Regale.

The outside door squeaked on its hinges and footsteps sounded on the wooden deck in long, sure strides approaching from behind. Soon the scents of soap and bold aftershave reached Allie on the breeze. She didn’t have to turn around to know Marc had joined her, but she did all the same. Scrumptious as he was, why waste a moment in his company not looking at him?

She rotated her tired body and leaned back against the iron rail, tucking both hands in her pockets. The Louisiana moon illuminated one side of Marc’s gorgeous face, casting a shadow beneath his lips and deepening the cleft in his chin. He rubbed a hand across his jaw while his dark eyes moved over her in a way that made Allie’s pulse quicken.

Each of her ten fingertips begged to skim the contours of Marc’s cheeks and tangle in his hair, but she shoved them deeper into her pockets and told them no. It was too soon—Marc wasn’t ready.

“Nice night,” she mused, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the leafy canopy of willows lining the riverbank.

“Mmm,” he agreed, never taking his dark eyes off her. “Bet it was a long day, though. I know how hard Regale is on his staff.” It wasn’t a question, but he raised a brow as if expecting an answer.