Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“See this bone, here?” Allie said, pointing to what remained of her Cajun-fried drumstick. “It’s the largest and most important, but it’s near the bottom of the circle, like it’s been discarded. This tells me you’ve already found your match, but you turned him away.” She glanced at Shannon and asked, “Have you snubbed anyone who genuinely cared for you?”

Slowly, Shannon’s eyes widened. “Well . . . yes, but that was—”

“Ooooh.” Allie sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. “That’s bad. The spirits of our ancestors don’t like it when we ignore their help.”

“So, he was really the one?”

“What does your heart tell you?” Allie asked. “How does it feel to know you can’t have him anymore?” If that didn’t hook her, nothing would. No one could resist the allure of the forbidden.

“What do you mean, I can’t have him?” Shannon replied in a sharp pitch.

Bingo.

Allie nodded at the bones. “It’s all spelled out right here. He’s off the market, at least where you’re concerned.”

“But . . . but . . . JP said he’d wait—”

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.” Shannon tossed her clutch onto the counter. “I wasn’t sure before, but now I think maybe I do.” Despite Shannon’s doubts, the desperation in her eyes when she said, “Is there anything I can do to get him back?” told Allie the woman had it bad.

Allie studied the bones. “Maybe. Won’t be easy, though. Even if he’s responsive to you, the spirits might interfere. You’ll have to do penance.” She shook her head. “No guarantees.”

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Biting back a smile, Allie grabbed an order pad from her apron and ripped free the top sheet. She bent down and wrote a list of chores to perform in atonement. When she added the final task— Leave an offering of pralines at Juliette Mauvais’s tomb —she made sure to warn, “But don’t scratch the triple-x marking into the wall. Memère’s spirit doesn’t like it.”

Shannon nodded and took the slip of paper, then opened her clutch. “Thanks, Miss Mauvais. How much do I owe you?”

Allie flashed her palm. “I can’t take money for interceding with the spirits on your behalf. It’s bad juju. However”—she gestured at a tray of sticky buns—“I’ve heard Romain men are fond of these.”

Shannon grinned in understanding. “I’ll take them all.”

After Allie boxed up the order, she taped her business card to the top. “I cater,” she said. “Tell your friends.”

“Will do.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Allie scooped up her chicken bones, folded her mat, and returned the supplies to their rightful place beneath the counter. She couldn’t help feeling a needling of jealousy for Shannon and JP. Maybe they needed a push to get them started, but at least the foundation was there. They loved each other.

Allie wanted that for herself. She was tired of mixing love potions and gris-gris for everyone else while remaining the eternal bridesmaid—figuratively speaking, of course. She didn’t have any close friends to ask her to stand up beside them in church, and her sister was no closer to holy matrimony than Allie was.

With a sigh, she stepped from behind the counter and strode outside, making sure to prop open the front door so she could hear the phone. After inhaling the sweetness of cinnamon and vanilla all morning, Allie found the humid summer air smelled too sharp, like a mingling of garbage and car exhaust.

And the heat!

Allie’s mama and daddy, God rest their souls, used to say South Louisiana in August was hotter than a two-pricked goat in a pepper patch. Allie’d survived twenty-six of these summers, and she’d never gotten used to it. She shut the door, figuring she’d rather miss a phone call than air-condition the whole street on her dime.

She took a moment to fasten her heavy curls into a twist, closing her eyes in relief when a breeze cooled the back of her neck. When she opened her eyes again, she saw a stunning face that had her stomach dipping into her bikini briefs—a face she couldn’t seem to banish from her most secret fantasies, no matter how much distance or time hung between them. Unfortunately, she repelled him like they were the same ends of a magnet—for every step she took forward, he took one back.

It wasn’t fair.

“Ladies,” Marc Dumont said with a cautious tip of his head. His gaze darted to the other side of the street, revealing how badly he wanted to cross it and get away from her. Some things never changed.

Shannon fired a glare at Marc before turning on her heel and stalking away without another word. He’d probably broken her heart, a virtual rite of passage for half the girls back home, Allie included. Junior year, he’d dropped her like a Crisco-coated stone after a single kiss, just a teasing brush of lips that had left her hungry for the next nine years.

So unfair.

Allie couldn’t help glancing at his mouth when she said, “It’s been a while. You look good.”

Too good—tanned and toned in all the right places. He’d grown out his hair so the chestnut waves nearly brushed his shoulders. It gave him a dangerous edge, especially when paired with the few days’ growth along his steely jaw. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his Levi’s and grinned, drawing out the cleft in his chin.

“So do you.” The low timbre of his voice gave her dirty thoughts. “Real good.”

Was it just her eager imagination, or was that a spark of lust in his gaze? Her pulse quickened at the possibility that he’d overcome his aversion to her. Something in the slow, easy way Marc moved told her not even a brown sugar pecan scone could hold a candle to a night in his bed.

Maybe it was time to get serious and find out—to go after what she wanted instead of wishing for other people’s happily-ever-afters. It was worth a shot. She didn’t have any appointments for the rest of the day, and her apartment was right upstairs.

“Thanks.” She hitched a thumb at her shop. “Want to come inside and catch up? It’s awfully hot out here.”

No shit. It was hot out here all right—in a way that had nothing to do with the brutal Louisiana sun. Marc glanced at the sign hanging above Allie’s camelback store. THE SWEET SPOT: SOMETHING TO TEMPT EVERY SAINT IN NEW ORLEANS. He was no saint, but he was sure as hell tempted. A man would have to be gay, castrated, or dead not to sport wood around Allie Mauvais.

She swept the back of her hand across her forehead, then blotted her flushed olive cheeks. One black curl escaped her twist and sprang free, refusing to be tamed . . . just like all Mauvais women. She looked like a wild Gypsy who’d just rolled out of bed with her lover, and when she locked those mismatched eyes on him, Marc’s jock twitched.

Damn. He’d like to inch up the hem of that short denim skirt and find her sweet spot.

But Marc never would. Not even he was that stupid.

“Maybe another time,” he lied.

He had no intention of spending a moment alone with her. He’d learned his lesson back in high school. Against his pawpaw’s advice, Marc had asked Allie to junior prom. He’d kissed her that night and had awoken the next morning to boils beneath his boxers. Pawpaw always said sex with a Mauvais woman would rot your pecker, and after that incident, Marc wasn’t taking any chances with his manhood.

Why risk it?

“Sure, another time.” When she arched to stretch her lower back, her breasts strained against the front of her thin white T-shirt, revealing the lacy pattern of her bra. Lord have mercy. “How’s your family?” she asked, lips twitching in a smile as she caught him staring. “I heard you’re going to be a big brother again.”