Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

That was thirty minutes ago.

Just when Marc thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Beau sauntered in from the kitchen, waving a yellow legal pad.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Beau said.

“Give me the bad news.”

“She’s nowhere near here.”

“And the good?”

“As cross-country travel goes, she’s in the easiest place to fly to.” Beau rotated his hips in an Elvis impersonation. “Vegas, baby.”

A slow grin spread across Marc’s face. His brother was right—on any given day, more than a dozen direct flights departed for Vegas from the nearest airport. The fares were cheap as dirt, and getting a room on the strip was a breeze. “I can be there by suppertime.”

“Not that you asked,” Beau said, “but she’s staying at the Grand Palace Royale.”

Marc tipped his head appreciatively. “High-dollar resort.” It was fashioned after a medieval village, complete with a castle and moat, and the staff wore Renaissance period costumes. Not his first choice, but a nice place to romance Allie.

There was only one problem.

“It’s bigger than some amusement parks,” Marc said. “If I don’t know which room she’s in, I’d have better luck finding Jimmy Hoffa’s body in the desert.”

“I’m working on it.” Beau lifted his phone. “My buddy’s hacking the hotel computer to find Allie’s room number. You get going. I’ll text you when he’s done.”

Marc thanked his brother and rushed toward his bedroom to pack an overnight bag. In his haste to get on the road, he blindly shoved clothing into his duffel without a care for whether or not it matched, then carried his bag into the bathroom to scoop a handful of random toiletries inside. If he forgot something important, he could buy it at the hotel. Marc made a grab for the Trojans in the medicine cabinet, but he paused with his fingers curled around the box.

Each time they’d made love, Allie had insisted they didn’t need protection beyond her birth control pills. In the logical part of his mind, Marc had known she was right, and yet he’d felt compelled to keep an extra barrier between them.

Not anymore.

Marc wasn’t his father, and he refused to live in fear of repeating another man’s mistakes. He shoved the box onto its shelf and shut the cabinet.

He was on his way toward the bedroom door when a flash of black and white caught his eye from inside the closet. It was his tuxedo, the one he’d worn at formal dinners on board the Belle before he was captain. He’d turned quite a few heads each time he’d put it on. If Allie had liked him in his captain’s uniform, she’d love him in this. And nothing said purest faith like showing up in Vegas already dressed for a wedding.

What the hell—he dropped his bag and decided to change. It wasn’t like another fifteen minutes would make or break his plans.

After three attempts, he finally got his bow tie straight, then pocketed the engagement ring, grabbed his duffel, and headed for the exit.

“Got the room number,” Beau said while tapping his cell phone screen. “I’m texting it to you so you don’t forget.”

The phone in Marc’s pocket buzzed in confirmation, and he gave it a quick glance. “Room 123,” he said. “That’s easy to remember.”

“Godspeed, little brother.” Beau folded his gargantuan arms and beamed. “Don’t come home without her.”

Marc thanked him. He liked this new and improved version of his brother. “You can count on it.”

After leaving his truck in short-term parking—hourly rates be damned—Marc jogged into the terminal and took his place in line at the ticketing gate. He did his best not to glare at the passengers in front of him, but for the love of God, why didn’t more people use the kiosk to check their luggage? Then it would free up a human employee and shorten his wait.

Finally, it was his turn. Marc approached the counter, staffed by a thirtysomething redhead with a flirty gleam in her eyes. Her lips slid into a wide smile while her gaze roamed over his torso.

“We don’t see many tuxes in here,” she said with a wink. “Are you one of Marty’s limo drivers? If so, you must be new, because I would’ve noticed you before.”

Marc didn’t have time for this. He forced a grin and resisted the urge to snap at her. “I need the next plane to Vegas, doesn’t matter which airline. I saw there was a nonstop flight leaving in forty-five minutes. Any chance there’s a seat left?”

“Oooh.” She grimaced and drew a sharp breath. “Afraid not. If you’d gotten here fifteen minutes ago, I might have been able to get you on board. But two of the inbound planes for Vegas were just grounded for technical issues, and we had to reroute the displaced passengers onto existing flights.” She gave him a pitying look. “I can put you on the standby list, but it’s already thirty passengers long.”

Marc huffed a sigh. Of course the Vegas-bound planes were busted. Just his luck. “When’s the next available flight?”

Her red-tipped fingers few across the computer keys for a few interminable seconds. “Looks like . . .”—just when he thought she might answer, she began typing again—“I can get you a seat tomorrow afternoon at three.”

“Tomorrow?” And not even a red-eye flight. This would set him back another twenty-four hours, meaning he might as well wait for Allie to come home. “That won’t work. I have to get there today.”

The woman turned up her hands, her expression hardening in a way that said he’d tried her patience. “Well, I can’t wave a wand and make that happen.”

Marc folded his arms against the counter and made his best puppy dog face, then tapped his tuxedo lapel and told a little white lie. “You don’t understand. If I don’t get to Vegas tonight, I’ll miss my own wedding.”

She softened at that, lips parting in an oval while her hand flew to her breast. “Oh, bless your heart.” Head tipped to the side, she blinked at Marc like he was a kindergartner with a skinned knee. “I wish there was something I could do. Have you looked into hiring a charter?”

Marc stood a bit straighter. “A charter plane?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She rooted around beneath the counter until she found a business card and slid it across the laminate surface. A toothy cartoon nutria waved at Marc above simple black font advertising River Rat Charters . “Rick’s your best bet for a last-minute booking. He’s a real sweetie.”

Marc didn’t care if the guy was a sweetie. He wanted someone to fly him safely to Vegas, not pinch his cheeks and tuck him into bed. “That’s nice, but can he fly?”

“Oh, sure.” The woman waved off his concern. “He’s been doing this forever.” She pointed at the phone number listed on the card while her gaze darted to the line of customers forming behind Marc. “Give him a call and see if he can help you. And congrats on the wedding, by the way.” Then she motioned for the next passenger to come forward.

Marc took the hint and carried his overnight bag to a quiet corner to contact the pilot. When he dialed the number, a woman with a two-pack-a-day voice answered, “Y’ello.”

“Hi,” Marc said. “I’m looking to charter a plane to Vegas.”

“When you wanna leave?”

“Preferably now.”

“Just a sec.” She didn’t bother covering the mouthpiece when she hollered, “Hey, Ricky! You wanna fly to Vegas today?”

A distant male voice shouted, “Mm-kay,” and the old woman gave Marc directions to the landing strip, which she said was in a field behind her house.

The exchange didn’t exactly fill Marc with confidence, but he wasted no time in jogging back to his truck and following the woman’s instructions. The sun hung a little too low in the sky for his liking, proof that the clock was ticking.