Make You Blush

by Beckett, Macy

  “Well, for starters,” Pawpaw began, scratching his turkey neck, “someone double booked the honeymoon suite. Now the head’s busted in there, so neither of them can use it.”

  That wasn’t so bad. “Call Herzinger Plumbing. He’s expensive, but he’s quick. Give the room to whoever booked it first, and offer the second couple the state suite. Then comp all their off-board excursions and give them a free bottle of champagne.”

  “There’s more,” Alex said from the other side of the table. “Lutz found an issue with the train linkage, and he says he doesn’t like the look of the throttle valve.”

  “Shit.” Now that was a problem. The city wasn’t exactly overflowing with steam engine mechanics, or spare parts for an antiquated machine designed in another century. “Can he get it fixed in time?”

  Alex shrugged. “Probably, if you make it worth his while. You know how it goes.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Marc grumbled. “Offer a twenty percent bonus for his crew if they get it done by next week.”

  “And the Gaming Control Board called,” Nick added. “They’re auditing last year’s income statements, and they said there’re a couple pages missing from the general ledger.”

  “That’s no biggie.” Marc’s sister could handle that. “I’ll have Ella-Claire fax them over.”

  “Yeah, but the Mississippi permit still hasn’t come through for the Texas Hold’em tournament.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Marc was going to need another shot.

  Licensing was an unholy nightmare when Belle crossed state lines, but nothing aboard the boat drew as much income as the casino. Nothing. And tournaments doubled their cash flow, because the participants tended to gamble damn-near around the clock. He’d bent over backward to book that event. Without those earnings, they were screwed like—well, like the jazz singer they no longer had.

  Marc pointed to Nick and said, “This takes priority over everything. Drive up there yourself and make sure we get that permit. Turn on the charm—do whatever it takes. We won’t cast off without it.”

  “Want me to go now?”

  Marc nodded at the door. “I wanted you there five minutes ago.”

  “It’s just . . .” Nick hesitated. “There’s more.”

  Marc slid his tumbler to Pawpaw for another pour. “What is it?”

  “Daddy called,” Nick said.

  “And?”

  “He wants you to bring on Worm. Said to start him off busing tables.”

  “And who’s going to look after him?” Their little brother wasn’t a bad kid, but fourteen-year-old boys had a way of gravitating toward trouble, and Worm was no exception.

  Instead of answering, Nick tipped back his beer.

  “Let me guess,” Marc said, accepting another shot from Pawpaw. “He expects us to do it for him.”

  “The boy’ll be fine,” Pawpaw promised. “Just like when y’all were that age. Family takes care of their own.”

  Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one responsible for keeping Belle afloat—both literally and figuratively. Still, it could’ve been worse. At least Daddy hadn’t asked him to hire Beau. To say there was bad blood between Marc and his older brother was like calling Mount Fuji an anthill.

  Marc tossed back his whiskey and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Fine, but we need to keep him busy. I want that boy so worn out, he falls down dead in his cot each night by eight.”

  “That won’t be hard,” Alex said, “considering we’re short staffed.”

  “What?” Marc’s backbone locked. “Since when?”

  Pawpaw laughed and gestured at Marc’s empty glass. “Remember when I said you were gonna need that hooch? This is why. That shoddy employment agency that Alex used to hire the cleaning crew got shut down for forging work visas.”

  Marc pushed both palms against the air. “Hold up a minute.” Everything had been fine when he’d left yesterday. “When did all this happen?”

  The three shared a quick glance, and Pawpaw guessed, “’Bout thirty minutes ago.”

  “It was the damnedest thing,” Alex said. “Like a shit storm blew into town and opened up right on top of us. It all happened at once.”

  “All of a sudden,” Nick added. “When it rains, it pours.”

  “Half an hour ago?” Marc whispered to himself.

  Wasn’t that about the time he’d crossed paths with Allie Mauvais? That’s what he got for standing on the same side of the street with her. Maybe her great-great-grandma’s spirit knew all the filthy things he’d wanted to do with Allie.

  “We’ve got to have a full cleaning crew,” he said, “or this trip won’t last long.” In such close quarters, sickness spread like wildfire, especially stomach bugs. All it would take was one bout of norovirus or E. coli to shut them down.

  “No joke,” Alex said. “Remember that one year?”

  All four men cringed at the memory.

  A few summers ago, their vegetable supplier had delivered a bad batch of iceberg lettuce. Within days, hundreds of folks had it coming out of both ends—even the guests who’d avoided the salad bar. There wasn’t enough Pepto in the world to counteract a puke-fest of that magnitude. Just thinking about the smell . . . Oh, god, he was getting queasy. He quickly derailed that train of thought.

  “If the press got wind of another outbreak like that, it would ruin us. Let’s station hand sanitizer pumps near all the doors and stairwells,” Marc suggested. “One inside every room, too.” He addressed Alex and said, “Call another temp agency. While you’re at it, see if you can snag us a few more servers.”

  When a few seconds ticked by in silence, Marc asked his family, “Is that it?”

  Pawpaw snorted. “That ain’t enough for you?”

  More than enough. Marc felt the urge to knock on wood, toss a pinch of salt over one shoulder, cross his fingers, and tuck a rabbit’s foot in his back pocket—and he wasn’t even superstitious.

  He dismissed the meeting and headed below deck to the boiler room. He wanted to see the valve “issues” with his own eyes and make sure Lutz wasn’t screwing him over.

  Halfway down the first stairwell, his cell phone vibrated against his left butt cheek. Marc pulled it free and discovered a text.

  Are you free for some afternoon delight?

  A smile formed on his lips. It was Nora, the perky redheaded waitress he’d taken home a couple of weeks ago. She was hotter than hellfire in the sack, with a carpet that matched the drapes. But despite that, he found himself texting, Rain check?

  You at the boat? she replied. I can be there in 10.

  No dice. Marc was wiped out, and Nora wasn’t on his to do list. Will make it up to you after this cruise.

  It better be good!

  Isn’t it always?

  She signed off with an xxx/ooo, and Marc shoved his phone into his pocket.

  For the first time since he’d sprouted short-n-curlies, he didn’t have the energy for sex. Hell, maybe he was jinxed after all.

  • • •

  One week and two dozen headaches later, Marc gathered his hair in a low ponytail and donned his captain’s hat—pristine white with a gold-embroidered black bill. He straightened his tie and grinned at his reflection in the pilothouse window.

  He’d waited a long time for this.

  Through the port bay, he could see a flurry of movement as early morning shipments of fresh food and last-minute supplies arrived for loading. In a few hours, guests would begin boarding, and there was plenty to do before then. Just when Marc had managed to weather last week’s shit storm, the main chef had changed the menu and demanded a list of new ingredients.

  Typically, Marc didn’t tolerate that crap, but booking Chef Regale for this cruise had drawn a full house. The man was unarguably a ranting diva, but his name was legend. As a bonus, Regale had brought on his associate pastry c
hef, a bigwig in his own right. That was worth makin’ groceries.

  He buttoned his white suit jacket and headed downstairs for a walk-through of the main level, pleased to find the carpets freshly vacuumed and the brass handrails buffed to a shine. The new cleaning crew had mopped the deck so thoroughly, its wooden planks practically glowed, and each bench and lounge chair was clean enough for the most discriminating backside.

  Satisfied, he touched base with his event manager and then strode outside to supervise the deliveries and greet any guests who might arrive early. He’d just stepped off the bow ramp when Worm waved one bony arm from the sidewalk and dragged himself over in a Hooters T-shirt, jean cutoffs, and a pair of Converse Chucks held together by a dying breath of glue.

  Marc glanced around for Worm’s mom, not too surprised when he couldn’t find her. Their father didn’t have the most discriminating taste in baby-mamas.

  “What the heck are you wearing?” he asked his brother. “The Belle’s not a trash barge—she’s basically a floating hotel. Even busing tables, you’ve got to look good.”

  “I know, I know.” Worm tipped his shaggy brown head toward the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m fixin’ to change. Didn’t wanna get my good clothes all sweaty from walkin’ over here.”

  “You walked all the way from uptown?”

  “I’m not a kid,” Worm protested with an eye roll, then swore, “Sweet Cheez-Its.”

  Teens and their attitudes. Was Marc ever this snarky? “Don’t make me toss you overboard.”

  “We’re not even on board,” the smart aleck countered.

  God bless, it was going to be a long couple of weeks.

  “Well, let’s fix that.” Marc swatted his brother’s scrawny tail, eliciting another non-swear. “Get on up there and find Alex. He’ll take you to your bunk. After you change, come back here and be ready to help the porters haul luggage.”

  Worm hitched up his duffel and grumbled toward the ramp.

  “Hey,” Marc added, “and lose the attitude!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” came the retreating reply.

  When Worm disappeared through the dining hall entrance, Marc pulled in a calming breath and turned his gaze to the tranquil blue sky and the leaves stirring above his head. It was perfect weather for boating—sunny and mild, with calm water to boot. The Mississippi could be a harsh mistress, but she’d decided to favor him with some sweet lovin’ today, for which he was mighty grateful.

  He strolled toward the sidewalk and paused when his cell phone rang. A glance at the screen showed Phillip Regale calling. Marc swiped a finger across the glass and answered.

  “Bad news,” Chef said, never one to mince words.

  Marc hoped Regale hadn’t changed the menu again. He’d already sent Nick to the market. “How bad?”

  “I lost my pastry chef.”

  Marc damn near dropped his phone. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

  “He’s under quarantine with German measles.”

  “What?” Who the hell got German measles anymore? “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious!” Regale bellowed, clearly insulted. “First documented case in a hundred years. If that’s not some damned dirty luck, I don’t know what is.”

  “Can you get someone to cover him?”

  “That’s the crazy part,” Regale said in disbelief. “I’ve called every pastry master I know—even the ones I wouldn’t ordinarily work with—and I can’t get a single one to pick up the line. It’s like they dropped off the planet. I half wondered if there was something wrong with my phone, but I reached you just fine.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I left a message with an agency. If they don’t come through, we’ll have to use store-bought desserts. Maybe pick up a second chef when we stop in Natchez.”

  Suddenly, the wind kicked up, temperature dropping as clouds eclipsed the sun. The skin at the base of Marc’s neck prickled into gooseflesh, and he shook off a chill. He glanced at the now-dark sky, wondering what had just happened. He had seen no storm systems on the radar this morning. He turned to jog back on board but stopped short, breath catching as he came face-to-face with Allie Mauvais.

  Marc clapped a hand over his pounding heart while she stood there watching him—lips curved in a grin, raven hair whipping her cheeks, hands clasped behind her back as if she’d appeared by magic.

  Which she probably had.

  It took a few beats for Marc to find his voice. He told Regale he’d call him back and disconnected, then demanded, “What’re you doing here?”

  Allie gripped her waist with one hand, still smiling. “That’s not very nice, baby.”

  Holding up his phone, he demanded, “Did you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  The answer formed on his lips, but it was too absurd to speak aloud. Did you give my pastry chef an eradicated disease? Did you blow the throttle valve? And what about my old cleaning crew—did you get them deported? Saints alive, it sounded ridiculous, even to him. He was losing his marbles.

  “You okay?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  “Yeah, sorry.” He rubbed one temple, hoping to restore his sanity. “It’s not a good time for a visit.”

  “I know. I heard about your pastry chef. Does he really have German measles?” She shook her head and whispered to herself, “Who gets those anymore?”

  His thoughts exactly, but he wondered how Allie had found out.

  The question must have shown on his face. “The agency sent me,” she explained.

  He puzzled for a moment, and then the full meaning hit him like a sledgehammer to the skull: Allie Mauvais aboard his ship—for two weeks. No way in hell. He’d sooner wrestle a twelve-foot gator in a flaming vat of fish guts.

  Before he had a chance to tell her no, she held her palm forward, revealing a small yellow pouch secured at the top with twine. “I also came to wish you luck and give you this.”

  Marc hesitated. He didn’t trust Allie’s gris-gris any more than he trusted her in the galley.

  “It’s dirt from Memère’s tomb and a few pennies,” she said, stepping nearer. “For good fortune.”

  He took a step back, licking his lips.

  Allie tipped her head and studied him with those exotic eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course not.” Marc scoffed and plucked the sachet from her outstretched hand. He reminded himself that he wasn’t superstitious, but made sure not to touch her. “But you can go back home. I can’t use you here.”

  She heaved a sigh and narrowed her eyes at him. “You are afraid of me.” Defensively, she folded her arms. “Grow up, Marc.”

  Despite her criticism, the words sparked a flash of pleasure low in his belly. He hadn’t heard his name on Allie’s lips since junior prom, and he liked the way it sounded. A little too much. He kind of wanted to hear it again, this time low and breathy with a moan behind it.

  “I can help you,” she pressed. “I don’t have any catering jobs for the next two weeks, and I’m sure my sister will watch the shop while I’m gone.”

  “But the salary’s not—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she interrupted. “This’ll be a good way to get my name out there.”

  Marc scrambled for a valid excuse to say no. “Phillip’s really hard to please.”

  “Wait,” Allie said. “Phillip who?”

  “Regale. He’s cranky as—”

  “The Phil Regale?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The man who practically revolutionized flambé in haute cuisine?”

  “I guess so,” Marc said. “Is there more than one chef with that name?”

  She shook her head, then bounced in place. “I’ve been trying to meet him for years! I’d love to work with him!”

  Marc tried warning her that
Chef was a misogynistic prick who didn’t like cooking with women, but Allie was too busy squealing and jumping in a circle to hear. Then she waggled one finger in the air and started dancing the Charleston. Marc couldn’t help smiling. In her half-hysterical state, she’d never looked so . . . normal.

  Allie Mauvais was human.

  Of course she’s human, you dickhead. What else would she be?

  While Allie shimmied her hips, he considered her offer. He did need a pastry chef, and there were no other takers. In the end, what choice did he have? Before Marc had a chance to change his mind, he said, “Okay. Go home and pack, but be quick about it. We launch in two hours.”

  She didn’t waste a second in turning and bounding toward the French Quarter, black curls springing freely down her back. She called over her shoulder, “You won’t regret this!” and then vanished around the corner.

  Marc wasn’t so sure about that, but he was still grinning like a fool. He pocketed the gris-gris bag she’d given him and sauntered toward his ship. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind died down, and the clouds broke, freeing the sun.

  The day was perfect once again.