Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

Allie shrugged and told a teensy lie. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Marc chuckled low and deep, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness. He propped an elbow beside her, settling so near that his dinner jacket brushed her bare arm and prickled her skin into goose bumps. “You sound like my sister.”

Allie resisted the urge to lean into him. Marc would spook easily; she had to play it careful with him. “I like Ella-Claire. She’s good people.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he agreed. “Way too good to have a jackass like me for a brother.”

She slanted him a look from the corner of one eye. “That’s not true.”

“Aw, now, Allie-Cat,” he murmured with a wicked grin that made her go all gooey inside. “You know I’m not an angel.” The wind kicked up, tossing her curls into the air, and Marc captured one lock between his fingers. He smoothed it against his thumb for a moment before tucking it behind her ear.

Allie swallowed hard. She told her feet to stay put, but that didn’t stop her face from inching toward his. “Neither am I.”

Marc’s gaze dipped to her mouth and held there. “No, I imagine you’re not, sugar.” He licked his lips, and just when Allie thought he might kiss her, he gave a regretful shake of his head and pulled back. “But you’ve been awful sweet around here,” he said. “And I mean to thank you for that.”

Allie stuffed down her disappointment and reminded herself that Rome wasn’t built in a day. With a warm smile, she bumped his shoulder with hers. “Just doing my job, baby.”

He returned her smile and ruffled her hair playfully. “Well, keep doing it. You saved my ass in there with the Gibsons.”

“Aren’t they adorable?” Allie brought a hand to her breast. The bride had come to the Sweet Spot over a year ago, looking for half a dozen cupcakes and a love charm. Well, mostly the latter. But the girl hadn’t needed magic, just the courage to date the men she wanted instead of the trust-fund boys her mama had always pushed on her.

“Adorable,” Marc said in a tone that implied the opposite. “I wonder if they take out their tongue rings before they get down and dirty.”

Allie delivered a well-deserved elbow to Marc’s ribs. “I imagine they leave them in, hon. When it comes to licking, tongue studs offer certain”—she stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear—“benefits.”

Marc drew a sharp breath while his pulse pumped visibly at the base of his throat. His reaction told Allie he enjoyed her mouth at his ear just as much as she enjoyed pressing it there.

Good. She decided to leave him wanting more.

“I’d better go,” she said, pushing off the rail. “Early to bed, early to rise. I want to beat Chef to the galley in the morning.” Which meant waking up hours before dawn, but it would be worth it if she could bake her breakfast pastries in peace.

Marc didn’t seem to like that. His forehead wrinkled and he held out a hand, catching her wrist to stop her, then releasing her just as quickly as if she’d burned him with her touch.

“Listen,” he said. “I know Regale’s kind of a tyrant, but if he’s giving you any trouble beyond the usual assholery, I want you to come see me. Okay?”

Allie gave him a small grin, touched by his concern. No, she wouldn’t bring those problems to Marc. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the promise of Phil’s mouthwatering cuisine had packed the Belle for the next two weeks, and Allie wouldn’t put Marc in the position of having to discipline his most crucial staffer. Or worse, create so much resentment that Phil issued an ultimatum and forced Marc to let her go.

She’d find a way to handle Chef Boyardouche on her own.

“You got it.” Allie threw him one last inviting smile and turned toward the door. As she walked away, she felt the heat of Marc’s gaze on her body, so just for fun, she dropped her hair elastic and bent over—extra-slow—to retrieve it. When she stood, she heard a faint whisper in the background that sounded like “Mercy.”

With a spring in her step and hope in her heart, Allie made her way upstairs to her suite—the unluckiest room on the boat—confident that tomorrow would be a better day.

Allie pressed her lips together to choke back a yawn while she threw more weight behind her rolling pin, eager to finish this last batch of apple turnovers before the sun rose and Regale stormed the galley to reclaim his throne. The oven timer beeped, and Allie set aside her wooden roller in favor of a latex oven mitt. She pulled out a tray of golden brown pastries and set them on the metal racks to cool, then hurried back to her dough to cut strips, add cinnamon apple filling, and fold the turnovers on a clean baking sheet.

She darted a glance at the clock and brushed a glaze over the dough. Not only did she want to avoid working alongside Regale, but a secret part of her needed to prove she wasn’t an “unqualified, hot piece of ass from the swamp.” Maybe she’d never win Chef’s respect, but if he saw how dedicated she was, he might quit threatening to replace her once they reached Natchez.

Twenty minutes later, Allie leaned against the stainless steel countertop and inhaled the delectable scents of apples and spice while admiring the fruits of her labor, no pun intended. This recipe was one of her most popular, with extra sugar and a squeeze of lemon. The four predawn hours she’d spent rolling and mixing and dicing would be worth it when she saw the looks of rapture on the passengers’ faces.

And maybe Chef’s, too. A girl could hope.

The kitchen staff began filing in, pulling waffle mix from the storage closet and chopping onions and peppers for the omelets. They greeted one another in cheery good mornings but brushed past “the captain’s squeeze” as if she weren’t there. Allie ignored the slight, arranging her pastries on serving trays until Ella-Claire strode into the galley with a clipboard and a smile.

“Smells amazing,” Ella said, peering around Allie at the turnovers. “Can I steal one?”

Allie used a napkin to lift a still-warm pastry from the tray and hand it over. Ella was the only crew member aboard the Belle who didn’t hate, fear, or want to seduce Allie, so she deserved the first bite.

“Mmm, thanks.” Ella took the offering while lifting her clipboard for show. “Alex forgot to get your signature on these tax forms. As soon as you give me your autograph, I’ll add you to the payroll.”

“Won’t the agency be paying me?” Allie asked.

“They didn’t have you in their system.” Ella shrugged. “Works out better for us anyway because now we get to hire you free and clear.”

“Sounds good.” Allie took the clipboard and scrawled her signature on the pages, then handed it back just as Ella sank her teeth into the first bite.

Ella’s mouth curved in a preemptive smile. “Oh, Allie, this is so—” She cut off, eyes widening. Her expression of rapture transformed to disgust, and she snatched a clean napkin from the counter to spit her bite into it.

“What’s wrong?” Allie asked. “Is it too hot?”

Ella’s eyes watered as she spat two more times into the napkin to clear her mouth. “I think there’s something wrong with this one,” she croaked, handing it back.

Confused, Allie pinched off a corner of the turnover and popped it into her mouth. At first, the pastry seemed fine—light and flaky. But when the apple filling crossed her tongue, it tasted like a mouthful of ocean water, bitter and briny. Allie nearly gagged. She grabbed a napkin of her own and disposed of her bite. “Oh, God. That’s awful!”

“It’s so . . .” Ella began.

“Salty,” Allie finished.

What had she done wrong? In her sleep-deprived state, had she incorrectly measured her ingredients? No, that couldn’t be right. She’d made this recipe so many times she could do it in a coma. She lifted the steel bowl from its industrial-sized mixer and peered at the remnants of apple filling smeared on the inside. After running her finger along the rim, she brought it to her mouth and sucked it clean.

It was horrible.

Allie returned to her workstation to inspect the ingredients she’d used. One by one, she sampled the flour, cornstarch, and apples, finding them satisfactory. When she dipped the tip of a clean spoon into the sugar bin and brought it to her mouth, she found the problem. It was salt. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed.

She rotated the plastic container until she found its label: Granulated Sugar. Allie knew for a fact there was real sugar in this cylinder yesterday when she’d made berry cobbler and chocolate-chunk cookies, because she’d sampled the finished products. That meant someone had sabotaged her workstation last night after she’d left—and ruined every single one of the turnovers she’d spent the last four hours preparing.

Who would do something so malicious?

“Look alive, people,” Chef yelled, loudly clapping his hands as he strode into the room. When his gaze fell on Allie, a slow grin curled across his lips, telling her exactly who would do something so malicious. Looking right at her, he shouted, “Someone tell the captain’s pretty little squeeze to get her breakfast pastries on the serving line. We’ve got early birds out there.”

The staff shared uneasy glances, unwilling to pass along the message. Finally, a teenage boy asked Allie, “You want me to take them out?”

That’s just what Chef wanted—for her to serve the guests contaminated food and ruin her reputation, and thus her career. What a coldhearted cochon. Allie’s whole body scorched with fever, sending heat rushing into her face. She tried to steady her pulse, but her heart pounded so fiercely she felt it in her fingertips. The tingly burn of tears pressed her eyelids, but she forced them back.