Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“What size?”

“Medium, I guess.”

He took an extra-long moment to appraise her chest before agreeing. “I need you to fill out some paperwork, too.” Backing toward the door, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As Alex walked out, the phone in Nick’s pocket chirped and he glanced at the screen. “Duty calls. Let me know if you get lonesome, hon.” He tossed her suitcase on the bed, and with a wink, he was gone, too.

Allie unzipped her suitcase and got to work unpacking. She’d just moved to the bathroom to freshen up when a man’s voice boomed through the thin wall separating her from the next suite. A thrill ricocheted the length of her spine. She knew that gravelly bark. Phillip Regale had checked in.

The Phillip Regale!

Alex had told her to stay put, but there was no harm in a quick introduction, especially if Phil invited her inside his room and away from Pawpaw’s line of vision. She rubbed some frizz-control between her hands and scrunched her curls. After a quick lipstick touch-up, she tucked her room key in her back pocket and checked the hallway, finding it vacant.

She tiptoed over and knocked twice beneath the peephole.

The door flew open more quickly than she’d anticipated. Allie flinched back while offering a shaky wave.

Phillip Regale greeted her with a curt, “What?” and tossed a handful of almonds into his mouth.

He was shorter than she’d expected, wearing a red Belle of the Bayou– embroidered polo instead of his typical white chef’s jacket. But she recognized his salt-and-pepper crew cut and the trio of lines etched across his forehead and between his eyes. He was distinguished and broad-shouldered and clearly awaiting a reply.

“Hi, sir,” she said and paused to swallow. “I’m Allison Mauvais, and I’ll be—”

“No autographs.” He started to shut the door, but on instinct, Allie wedged her sneaker-clad foot in the jamb. The hazel eyes narrowed at her were not amused.

“Can I come in for a second?” she asked, taking another quick peek up and down the hall.

Phillip wrinkled his nose like he’d smelled vinegar in his hollandaise sauce. “No, you most certainly cannot.”

This wasn’t going the way she’d planned. Allie scrambled for damage control. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m your new pastry chef.”

“Oh,” he said, relaxing a bit. “Never heard of you.” He opened the door an inch or two but didn’t invite her in. “Where’d you graduate?”

“Cedar Bayou High.”

“No,” he said, snickering in a way that made her feel stupid. “Which culinary school?”

Allie hesitated, unsure of how to answer him. She had no degrees or formal training beyond what she’d picked up in her mama’s kitchen. But deciding she had nothing to be ashamed of, she admitted, “I didn’t go to culinary school. But I learned from the best.”

“Yeah?” He munched his almonds, tipping back his head to look down his nose at her. “Who?”

“It’s wasn’t a formal apprenticeship, but my mama and my—”

“Oh, God.” He pinched his temples between his thumb and index finger and regarded her with new eyes, taking in the exposed skin below the hem of her skirt and then raking his gaze over her breasts. “I get it. You’re fucking the boss.”

Allie’s lips parted with a pop, heat rushing into her cheeks. Sheer mortification tied her tongue for several awkward beats, and just when she geared up to contradict him, Phil cut her off with a humorless laugh.

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve dealt with plenty of broads spreading ’em for a job. Just do what I tell you and stay out of my way. I’ll hire my own guy as soon as we stop in Natchez.”

With the toe of his shoe, he nudged aside her sneaker and clicked the door shut.

For a full minute, Allie’s feet clung to the carpet as she stared at the oak barrier inches from her nose. The heat from her face spread downward, sparking a flame of anger inside her chest. Devyn was right. Phillip Regale was an asswipe. And when Allie blotted her cheeks, she discovered the jerk really did spit when he talked.

She balled one fist and pounded on his door. When he didn’t answer instantly, she pounded three more times.

Alex turned the corner and bolted to her side. “What are you doing? Get back in your room!”

“Not yet,” she said, pounding until her fist ached. “Not until he takes it back.”

The door swung open again, and this time, Phillip’s eyes were more than unamused. They were downright livid. “What now?” he demanded around a cheek full of nuts.

“Nothing, Chef,” Alex said, wrapping an arm around Allie’s shoulders and then releasing her just as quickly.

Allie shook her index finger at Regale. “I’m not sleeping with the captain!”

“Right.” He tossed another almond into his mouth. “Then explain why I’m stuck working with an unqualified, hot piece of ass from the swamp.”

Alex drew a sharp breath, flinging himself in front of Regale as if to take a bullet. “We need him, Allie,” he said desperately. “Don’t hex him!”

“Hex me?” Regale said with a snort. “Good God, what kind of Podunk shit is th—”

His voice cut off abruptly, hand flying to his throat while his watery eyes bulged wide. As seconds ticked by, redness crept into his face, followed by a shocked expression. He tried to cough, but no sound escaped his lips. With each new attempt, more color flooded his cheeks until he resembled an unripe plum.

Alex spun on her. “Undo it!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Phil bent at the waist and clutched the doorjamb, pounding his own stomach to free his airway.

“Please, Allie!” Alex begged. “Reverse it!”

She pushed Alex aside and skirted Phil’s body until she settled behind him. Steeling herself, she wrapped both arms around his belly, situated her fist beneath his rib cage, clapped the opposite hand over it, and heaved backward.

Nothing happened.

“Oh, my God,” Alex cried. “He’s gonna die!” He frantically made the sign of the cross over Phil, mumbling a Hail Mary in disjointed Latin.

Allie tensed her muscles to try again. This time, she inched her fist upward and planted her feet hip-width apart for better leverage. With a mighty tug, she squeezed Phil’s girth with all her strength and heard a light oof of air in response. She glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the dislodged almond smack an old man in the eye.

“Couillon!” the old man swore, clapping one hand over his injury. Then he turned his good eye on her and lowered the brow above it. “Is that a Mauvais? Aboard my ship ? ”

He had to be Marc’s pawpaw. Allie hadn’t seen him since she’d moved away from the bayou, but apparently he recognized her easily enough.

Before anyone could respond, Phillip growled and shoved Allie into the hall, thanking her for saving his life by slamming the door in her face. Again.

Ten frantic minutes later, after she and Alex had tried tag-teaming his pawpaw into accepting her aboard the Belle, the old man stalked away.

“Over my dead carcass!” he hollered. “I’m havin’ words with Marc. But first, I’m pourin’ a line of salt at my door, so she can’t curse the bed while I’m outside!” He pointed at Alex and warned, “You best do the same, boy!”

“That only works for those who mean you harm,” she called after him. “I’m here to help.”

As he charged down the hall, she thought she heard him mutter, “Damn straight. Help us all to hell.”

Alex rushed after his pawpaw, leaving Allie alone to wonder if the Dumonts had it all wrong. Because if the day’s events were any indication, it seemed Memère had jinxed her own line instead of theirs.