Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“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.

“Marc Dumont is like the St. Charles trolley,” Devyn complained. “Everyone in the city’s had a ride.” She grabbed a handful of socks from the dresser drawer and shoved them in Allie’s suitcase with enough force to shake the bed. “Why would you want to spend two weeks trapped on a boat with a skeezeball like him?”

“He’s not that bad,” Allie told her sister, tossing her toiletry bag beside the socks. “And it’s a really big boat.”

“Not big enough for his libido.” Devyn pushed a dark curl behind her ear and added, “Or his idiocy.”

“You’re missing the point,” Allie said while scanning the bedroom floor for her work clogs. “I get to share an oven with Phillip Regale.”

Devyn sniffed disdainfully and perched on the edge of the mattress. “I saw him on Satan’s Kitchen a few years ago. He’s an asswipe, and he spits when he talks.”

“Hey.” Allie waved a hand in the air as if dispersing a cloud of perfume. “Enough with the negativity,” she said, laughing. “You’re harshing my glow.” The two sisters could pass for twins if it weren’t for Dev’s blue eyes and a few inches of height in her favor, but when it came to personality, they were like buttercream and rolled fondant—one sweet and fluffy, the other lovely but hardened. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

Devyn held up two nightgowns—a black lace teddy and a frumpy pink polka-dot sheath. “Which one?”

Allie pointed to the teddy.

“Aha!” Devyn cried, waving the lacy frock at her. “I was right. You want to get freaky with Marc!”

“I’m a grown woman,” Allie reminded her ever so slightly older sister. “I can get freaky with whoever I want.”

Devyn folded the long pink nightgown and placed it in the suitcase, then balled up the teddy and chucked it over one shoulder. “I’m just looking out for you. If Marc’s anything like his big brother . . .” She pressed her lips together and smoothed a wrinkle from a pair of shorts. Dev didn’t like talking about her short-lived romance with Beau, and today was no exception. “Well, let’s just say there’s a reason Memère cursed the Dumonts. Everyone knows they can’t be trusted.”

Allie paused midreach for a fistful of undies. “You don’t really buy into that, do you?”

“Of course I do!” Devyn gawked at Allie like she’d sprouted a second nose. “They’re practically sticking it someplace new every time the wind changes.”

“No,” Allie said, “I mean the curse. You think it’s real?”

Devyn shrugged. “Sure. Why else would they be so screwed up?”

“Because it’s all they’ve ever known. Kids think dysfunction is normal when they see it every day. They learn by example; then they teach it to their own kids until someone breaks the cycle. It’s basic psychology, not voodoo.”

“Then explain why none of the men have gotten married in four generations,” Devyn argued. “But the women have.”

Allie didn’t have an answer for that. It’s not like marriage was truly permanent anymore. Thousands of feckless lovers married—and divorced—every day, no long-term commitment required. It was a little strange that no Dumont man had taken the vow since Memère’s time, but that didn’t mean a hex was to blame.

“I don’t know,” Allie conceded. “But I’m sure there’s a logical reason.”

“You and your logic.” With a light bounce, Devyn stood from the bed and grabbed the hair dryer. She held it up in a silent You taking this? and tucked it beneath a sundress without waiting for a reply. “Funny that you’re the one people come to see for charms, considering you don’t believe in your own gift.”

“I know I have a gift,” Allie said. “It’s just not rooted in hocus-pocus.” She slipped her cell phone charger between a stack of shirts. “And more folks would ask for your help if you weren’t so scary.”

“Me?” Devyn pointed at herself, brows forming a V above a pair of pale blue eyes so cold they could frost the sun. “Scary?”

Allie laughed. “All your boyfriends end up in urgent care, and everyone assumes you jinxed them.”

“Ex-boyfriends,” Devyn corrected. “And that was a coincidence—all six times. I’ve never hexed anyone.” She considered a moment and tapped her bottom lip. “Though maybe I should. There are plenty of jerks I could practice on . . .”

“See?” Allie said. “Told you.”

“You say ‘scary,’ I say ‘public service.’” Devyn flapped a hand. “Potato, po-tah-to.”

Allie leaned around her sister to peer at the bedside clock. “I’ve got to run. Any last-minute questions?”

“I don’t think so. Let me make sure I’ve got the important stuff down.” She began listing items on her fingers. “The alarm password is 1987; deliveries come on Tuesdays and Fridays; the credit card reader’s broken, so cash only; don’t take any checks from Mrs. Mason; and I need to be downstairs by four each morning to help the girls bake.” Devyn fired a glare after the last bit. “You so owe me.”

“I’ll take you to Vegas when I get back,” Allie promised. “But just for the weekend, and no tequila this time.”

“Fine.” Devyn zipped the suitcase, then held her arms out for a hug. “But you’re more fun after a few shots.”

“You say ‘fun,’” Allie replied, squeezing her sister tight, “I say ‘half-naked in the hotel fountain.’”

“Potato, po-tah-to.”

“Thanks, baby.” Grabbing her suitcase, Allie shuffled into the hallway and called, “See you in a couple weeks.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Devyn hollered after her. “And I would not give Marc Dumont any nookie!”

“Can’t hear youuuuuu ,” Allie teased as she rushed down the stairs. On her way out the door, she paused to grab her backpack of gris-gris supplies: sacred soil, herbs, coins, flower petals, assorted fabrics, and twine. Her instincts—and Marc’s stress level—told her she’d need to mix a few bags on this trip.

Though weighed down with twenty pounds of luggage, Allie’s feet barely touched the ground as she made her way to the river. Good things were in store. She could sense it.

“Ahoy, sir.” Allie set down her suitcase and stood at attention. “Private Allison Catrine Mauvais reporting for duty.”