Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

After Beau checked the buffet warmers, he joined Marc and clapped him on the back. “How long until crunch time?”

Marc checked his watch, noting he had thirty minutes before Devyn lured Allie to the boat under the pretense of taking inventory in the galley. “Not long enough.”

“What can I do?”

Marc nodded at the buffet table. “What you do best—get the burgers on the line.” He delivered a good-natured smack to his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Beau said. “Hell, for the first time in a hundred years, one of us finally tied the knot. If that’s not a damned fine reason to tap a few kegs and fire up the grill, I don’t know what is.”

Marc couldn’t agree more. His new bride had insisted she didn’t need a party, but he wanted her to have a proper reception. He’d even hired a photographer and ordered a wedding cake that Devyn and the Sweet Spot crew had baked on the sly. Now he had to help the deejay set up and see to the decorations, which still weren’t finished.

He needed Ella-Claire, his Chief Party Planner. Where was that girl?

It didn’t take long to spot her—all he had to do was find Alex, who’d already abandoned his keg duties. Like two halves of a peanut butter and honey sandwich, Marc could always find the duo stuck together. Arms linked, the pair leaned against the side wall, smiling while scrolling through pictures on Ella’s phone. Their bodies pressed a little too close; their gazes held a little too long to fool him into believing it was platonic.

Best friends , his ass.

Marc took a calming breath while stalking toward the two, determined not to blow a fuse and ruin his mood for Allie’s big day. “Hey,” he called, making them jump. He crooked a finger at Alex. “Come help the deejay while Ella tends to the decorations.”

Alex must have sensed he was in trouble, because he kept a safe distance while they made their way to the dance floor. Before they got there, Marc spun on his little brother and brought him to a clumsy halt.

“I don’t know what’s up with you and Ella-Claire,” Mark said. “But if you want to keep your walnuts, you’d better back off.”

Alex’s blond brows shot up while his eyes widened in denial. “It’s noth—”

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing,” Marc interrupted. “Just steer clear of my sister.” He shot Alex a pointed look. “We clear?”

Alex’s fair cheeks began to redden. “Crystal.” He crouched down, turning his attention to the tangle of cords and wires at their feet, before flagrantly changing the subject. “Did you talk Pawpaw into coming?”

Right on cue, the old man shuffled up the bow ramp, holding a tattered paper bag, which he deposited onto the gift table with a clatter. Probably his usual wedding present: a bottle of homebrewed shine, “guaranteed to make any marriage bearable,” as he’d often said.

Pawpaw wore a scowl, but at least he’d dragged his crotchety ass down here to support his new granddaughter-in-law. A few minutes later, Worm loped aboard right ahead of Daddy and his flavor of the month, a thirtysomething brunette whose belly was round with the sixth Dumont brother.

The gang was all here—one big, dysfunctional family.

When Devyn brought Allie to the dock, Marc met her on the bow ramp and carried her aboard. She laughed and gave him a questioning glance that turned to shock when everyone shouted, “Congratulations!”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“What any decent husband would do,” he told her. “Made sure we get our first dance.” He led her to the center deck and held her close while the deejay played Bonnie Tyler’s cover of “I Put a Spell on You.” When the music ended, Marc whispered, “There. Now we have a song.”

Allie’s adoring smile sent a wave of pleasure washing over him, worth every second of effort he’d invested. “You’re too good to me.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” he teased. “It’s time to meet the rest of my family.”

After introducing his wife to every Dumont in Louisiana, Marc stole her away to the side deck rocking chairs and pulled her into his lap, where she curled up and rested her pretty head on his shoulder. Marc figured life didn’t get any better than this.

Their location didn’t remain private for long, probably because they’d settled too near the kegs. Beau lumbered forward, red Solo cup in hand. “Congrats, brother,” he said. “Never thought I’d say this, but marriage suits you.”

“Thanks.” Marc nodded at the keg in a silent request. “Never thought I’d agree with you, but you’re right. Allie’s made me a lucky man.”

She kissed his neck. “You’re welcome.”

“Let me get you a beer,” Beau said. “Want one, Allie?”

“I’ll just share his.”

Beau cocked an eyebrow. He must have recalled that Marc never shared his drinks. “She gets a pass,” Marc said.

With a shrug, Beau leaned down to reach the keg and began filling a cup. The foam quickly rose to the surface, then spilled over the top, pooling onto the deck.

“Dude,” Marc called. “That cup’s not getting any fuller.”

Beau glanced at his hand to find it covered in suds. He swore under his breath and passed the drink to Marc while wiping his fingers on his T-shirt, then went back to staring at something in the distance.

Marc followed his brother’s gaze to figure out what had distracted him. Not surprisingly, he spotted Devyn Mauvais bent over the gift table, her rear end showcased in a tight black miniskirt. Marc bit back a chuckle. He had a feeling which Dumont man would be the next to fall.

“Hey,” Marc asked his brother. “Do you still have that birthmark over your heart?”

Beau eventually took his eyes off Devyn long enough to ask Marc, “What?”

“The red splotch,” Marc said, tapping his own chest. “Is it still there?”

“Of course.”

“You sure?”

With one hand, Beau tugged the hem of his shirt all the way to his neck. The birthmark was there, just as he’d said.

Too bad. Looked like each Dumont man would have to break the curse for himself.

A loud thunk sounded from nearby, and Marc turned just in time to see Devyn walk into the railing, her gaze still fixed on Beau’s exposed chest. The act didn’t escape Beau’s notice. A shit-eating grin curved his mouth while Devyn’s frosty blue eyes narrowed in contempt.

“Real classy,” she spat at him. “You can’t even keep your clothes on at my sister’s wedding reception.”

Beau held his shirt in place and gestured at his stomach. “Did you get an eyeful, or do you want some more? Maybe take a picture for later?”

She flashed him the bird and addressed Allie. “Got anything to drink besides beer?”

“You bet,” Allie said. “Beau’s our designated bartender.”

Devyn didn’t seem to like that.

“Name your poison,” Beau said, finally lowering his shirt. “If we don’t have it on board, it doesn’t exist.”

“Can you make a lemon drop?”

“In my sleep.”

Devyn leaned back against the rail. “All right, then.”

Beau hurried inside to the executive bar and returned five minutes later with a sugar-rimmed martini glass. He handed it to Devyn, who scrutinized it from every angle before taking a sip and glancing at the deck ceiling in consideration.

“Well?” Beau asked. “What’s the verdict?”

“Not bad.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a rave.”

“Don’t jizz in your pants, Dumont,” she said dryly. “I’ve had better.”

Smiling, he leaned far enough into her personal space to make her freeze. “Are we still talking about martinis?”

Devyn’s mouth pressed into a hard line, but she couldn’t conceal the pink flush creeping into her cheeks. “Yes, but even if we weren’t, my statement stands. I’ve had all kinds of better than you.”