Make You Mine

by Macy Beckett

  How fitting.

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

  Chapter 17

  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 persona
l 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.

  What a crock.

  After the prayer, she scattered the bones across the mat and pretended to study the significance in their patterns while deciding how best to phrase her advice. Obviously Kim didn’t want to end her relationship; otherwise she wouldn’t have come here for a love charm, so the standard Dump him and move on wouldn’t work. Perhaps she should say the spirits of Kim’s ancestors considered her boyfriend unworthy, and that was why he hadn’t proposed.

  Yeah, right, quipped a sarcastic voice inside Allie’s head. Because lying worked so well with Marc. You’re a regular miracle worker.

  Allie frowned at the bones and considered those words.

  Her conscience had a point.

  Using her perceived voodoo “powers” to manipulate Marc had blown up in her face. She could trick most people into following the path she thought was best for them, but was it really her place to try? Had she been an enabler all these years, fooling clients into thinking they had no control over their own destinies?

  Maybe instead of blaming “the spirits” for everyone’s poor life choices, she needed to butt out and let folks make their own mistakes—kind of like the parable of teaching a man to fish instead of giving him a trout for supper.

  “I’m sorry.” Allie grabbed a nearby wastebasket and swept the bones inside. “I can’t do this.”

  Shannon blinked in surprise. “Should we come back tomorrow?”

  “No,” Allie said. “I’m done with all of it—charms, potions, gris-gris. You can come to me if you need a sugar fix or a shoulder to cry on, but that’s all.”

  “But what should I do about my boyfriend?” Kim asked.

  Allie gave it to her straight. “People rarely change. If your boyfriend’s not giving you what you need now, I doubt he ever will. Ditch him and work on empowering yourself so next time, you won’t settle for less than what you deserve.”

  Shannon and Kim wore similar masks of shock, their brows disappearing beneath dripping-wet bangs.

  Devyn, who’d been silent this whole time, finally spoke up. “Want some gris-gris for clarity of mind and heart?” she asked. “I made a batch”—her gaze darted to Allie—“for a friend who’s going through something similar.”

  Kim stammered, still caught off guard.

  “Well?” Devyn snapped. “You want it or not?”

  “Yes, please.” Kim extended her hand, palm up, while keeping a wary distance.

  Dev plucked a sachet from her pocket and gave it to the woman. “Keep this on you at all times, even when you’re sleeping.” When she noticed Kim reaching into her purse, Devyn barked, “And don’t try to pay me. It’s bad juju!”

  “Sorry.” Kim tensed and backed toward the door, her head bobbing like she didn’t know whether to genuflect or run for cover. “Thank you.” She and Shannon waved a stiff good-bye, and the two of them wasted no time in snatching their umbrella and hightailing it outside into the rain.

  “Here’s yours,” Dev said, handing Allie a sachet of herbs. “I know you’ve lost faith, but do me a favor and stick it in your pocket.”

  “Thanks, baby.” Allie was touched by her sister’s concern. “That was sweet of—”

  Her cell phone chimed, and Allie dropped the gris-gris bag in her haste to snatch the phone and swipe the screen. Her pulse raced, fingers trembled, but she was met with disappointment once again.

  Hugs, Ella-Claire had texted. I’m thinking of you. Call if you want to talk.

  The screen went blurry as tears welled in Allie’s eyes. How long would she keep jumping at the sound of every text? If the hope inside her heart didn’t fade soon, she’d lose her mind.

  “Give me that.” Devyn took the phone from her and began typing a response.

  “Hey,” Allie said, dabbing at her eyes. “What’re you doing?” When her sister refused to surrender the phone, Allie peered at the screen to read the return text.

  Thanks, but I’m fine, Devyn typed. Going off the grid for a few days. We’ll talk next week.

  Devyn hit the send button. “Go upstairs and pack a bag,” she ordered. “We’re leaving on the next flight to Vegas.” She held up Allie’s phone. “And this is staying here.”

  • • •

  The storm broke the next day, but in his half-inebriated state, Marc barely noticed.

  It wasn’t until a beam of late-morning sunlight escaped the clouds and speared his throbbing eyeballs that it occurred to him the rain had stopped. He raised a hand to shield himself from the nuclear assault and stumbled onto the Belle’s bow ramp, thankful that he lived close enough to walk to the boat when he was still buzzed from the night before. Otherwise he’d be forced to give up his new girlfriend, Tequila Rose.

  One kiss from the lip of that bottle could dull the pain from the ulcer that seemed to have developed on his heart. Relief only lasted a few moments at a time, but if he kept sipping long enough, eventually sleep would take him—which bought six more hours of anesthetized freedom. So what if he awoke with his brain on fire and his stomach turning flips?

  It was a small price to pay.

  His love affair with Rose explained the sudden influx of empty glass bottles in his recycling bin . . . not to mention the fumbling of his hands as he gripped the deck railing for balance. Whoa. Either the river was churning or Rose was having her way with him.

  He pushed off the rail, propelling his leaden feet toward the stairwell, then pried open the door and made his way to the second-floor dining hall. A blast of cool air-conditioning sobered him up a fraction as he crossed to the executive bar. He noticed an odd smell in the room, sharp and chemical, but not altogether unpleasant. His instincts told him something was different, though he couldn’t put his finger on what.

  The dragging of his footsteps alerted the crew—his brothers, Ella-Claire, and Pawpaw. Five heads turned his way, five pairs of eyes displaying vastly different reactions to his presence: pity from Ella-Claire, concern from Pawpaw, twin looks of unease from Alex and Nick, and thinly veiled disgust from Beau.

  “Nice of you to join us, Captain,” Beau said while glancing at his watch. He raked a gaze over Marc’s face. “Jesus, when was the last time you shaved?”

  “Or showered?” added Alex, quirking a brow at the rumpled clothes Marc had slept in last night.

  Suddenly itchy, Marc scratched the whiskers at his jawline. He’d showered yesterday but hadn’t used a razor since the evening of his so-called cleansing ceremony in Cedar Bayou—the one that hadn’t worked because it wasn’t even real.

  Like shrapnel, a jolt of pain tore through his chest, so he pushed away the memory and locked it down tight, then took his seat at the head of the table. “I’ll clean up fine by the next trip. Until then, worry about your own ugly mugs.”

  “You okay?” asked Ella-Claire from the other end of the table. “I tried calling you this morning, but it went straight to voice mail.”

  When Marc glanced at his sister, he noticed she sat so close to Alex that their legs were touching. For the love of God, she was practically in his lap. “I’m fine,” he ground out, narrowing his eyes at Alex, who responded at once, scooting a few inches away from Ella and staring at his notepad.

  Maybe it was time to have a chat with those two.

  “Someone please pour me a drink,” Marc said. “And fill me in on what I missed.”

  Ella stood and strode to the bar, then returned with a mug of black coffee. She placed it in front of him
and offered a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I think you’d better have this instead.”

  He grumbled a reluctant thanks and took a sip.

  “As for what you missed,” she said, sweeping her hand toward the floor, “do you like it?”

  “Like what?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “The new carpet!”

  That explained the unfamiliar smell he’d noticed earlier. The old red-patterned carpet that had always reminded him of The Shining had been replaced with a stylish Confederate gray Berber. “Yeah, looks nice.”

  “Looks nice?” she repeated. “That’s it? You’ve been waiting years for the money to spiff up the dining room, and now it’s like you don’t care.”

  Shameful as it was, Marc couldn’t deny the accusation. The Belle had finally turned a large enough profit to pay off his bank loans with plenty to spare for renovations and repairs. His maiden cruise as captain had been a smashing success, and they’d already sold out the next trip. A few weeks ago, reaching this point was his main goal in life, but now he couldn’t bring himself to give half a damn.

  He knew the reason.

  During the voyage his goals had shifted, because the Belle was no longer his number-one girl. That role had been usurped by a curly-haired pastry chef with mismatched eyes and a penchant for bending the truth.

  The worst part was that he didn’t care about Allie’s lies. If he thought she would have him, he’d throw himself at her feet for just one more day with her. But no matter how vehemently she denied the curse, it hung between them like a lead curtain, and he couldn’t stand to see that look of disappointment on her face again.

  “The boy needs a priest,” Pawpaw said, studying Marc with a shrewd gaze. “He’s still entranced.” He jabbed a gnarled finger at Marc. “For years I’ve been warnin’ you about them Mauvais women. Believe me now?”

  Everyone else at the table avoided Marc’s eyes.

  “Don’t start with me.” Marc didn’t try to conceal the threat in his voice. He’d allowed his pawpaw onto the boat, but that didn’t mean he’d tolerate the old man blackening Allie’s name. “It’s because of her that we’re finally turning a profit. She’s done nothing wrong.”