Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“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.”

Pawpaw scrunched up his mouth, clearly working on a counterargument. “Doesn’t matter. You still can’t meddle with her, or the hex—”

“Oh, come on.” Ella threw her hands into the air. “Enough with the superstitious nonsense. There’s no hex on your family. You make your own beds and lie in them, just like everyone else.”

She was wrong—Marc knew firsthand. At the altar last week, he’d felt that dark magic pressing against his ribs, smothering him when he’d tried to ask Allie to move in with him. Something very real had kept his words from escaping, and it wasn’t a mental block.

“Can we quit wasting time?” Beau checked his watch again. “I’ve got places to be, and we still need a status report on the train linkage.”

Thankful for the change in subject, Marc asked, “What’s wrong with it now?”

“Nothing.” Ella reached for Alex’s Coca-Cola and took a sip. Good Lord, why did she have to keep doing that? “It’s purring like a kitten. Lutz said the hiccup we had in St. Louis must’ve been a fluke.”

Marc shook his head. “It’s just a matter of time before Belle gets the hiccups again. Call Lutz and have him take another look. I don’t want any surprises on the next trip.”

Then Ella said something that made him sit a few inches straighter. “You always assume the worst. O ye of little faith.”

That was interesting. Little faith .

Marc couldn’t discern why, but the phrase resonated with him and bounced against the inner walls of his mind, repeating over and over.

Little faith .

Voices from around the table faded into obscurity as Marc puzzled on the reason for his sudden curiosity. There was something significant to be learned here; he sensed it. He seemed on the verge of an epiphany, the answer barely beyond his reach.

Little faith .

Wrinkling his brow, he stared out the side window to the placid river as if the solution might appear to him on the water. Then he recalled the last line from Juliette Mauvais’s hex, none but purest faith will set you free , and the jigsaw pieces clicked into place—complete and utterly clear for the first time.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Now he knew why he’d failed to break the curse, and it had nothing to do with Allie’s gravesite ritual being a fake. The fault was entirely his. Only one kind of ceremony would free him, and it wasn’t a voodoo cleansing.

“Did you say something?” asked Ella-Claire.

Marc’s mind reeled with the truth of his discovery. “I’m in love with Allie Mauvais,” he said to no one in particular.

He was met with blank stares and silence.

“She’s selfless and sweet,” he continued. “I’m happy when I’m around her and miserable when I’m not. She even likes old Westerns.” He locked eyes with his sister. “I’ve never met a woman who liked Westerns.”

Ella gave him a sad smile. “She’s special, for sure.”

“She’s more than special,” Marc said. “She’s my perfect match.” And when a smart man found the love of his life, he didn’t ask her to move in with him—he married her. “That’s why I couldn’t break the spell. I showed a little faith, and it wasn’t enough.” Marc stood from the table so quickly his chair fell over. “I have to find her and ask her to marry me.” His chest went warm and tingly, a message that he finally had it right.

With that sole purpose in mind, he rushed toward the exit.

A scuffling noise sounded from behind, and a pair of arms tightened around Marc before he’d reached the door. Marc tried to squirm free, but the grip was too powerful.

“Hold up there, little brother,” Beau said. “You look like a vagrant and you smell worse than a distillery. Let’s not give Allie a reason to say no.”

Marc quit struggling long enough to let Beau’s advice sink in. He was right; Allie deserved the best, not some half-assed proposal from Marc with the kiss of Tequila Rose on his breath.

“Fine.” Marc let his arms go slack. “Give me a lift home, will you?”

“You got it.”

“No, to the jewelry store,” Marc corrected. “No, wait. Not the jewelry store—to the pawn shop. I want to buy a ring that’s completely nonrefundable.” The more faith the better. “Take me to the bank!”