She cast me a sideways grin. “That isn’t what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

“It really wasn’t.” Wrapping an arm around me now, she leaned close and lowered her voice. “Here’s your first lesson in seduction: honesty is sexy as hell. No, not like you’re thinking,” she added when I scoffed again. “Honesty goes beyond telling him who you used to be, who he used to be, who you used to be together. You’ve tried that, and it hasn’t worked. You need to show him. Allow yourself to be vulnerable, so he can be vulnerable too. That kind of honesty—that kind of honesty is intimate. It’s raw.”

I plunked my head against the hull, sighing deeply. “You forget I’m a liar. I don’t do honesty.”

Her smile spread. “You do with him.”

“He’s fucking infuriating.”

“That he is.”

“I want to gouge his eyes out.”

“I completely agree.”

“I might steal his Balisarda and shave his eyebrows with it.”

“I wish you would.”

“I’ll be honest if you will.”

Her face snapped toward mine then, confused, and I met her gaze steadily. “What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously. From the way her eyes flicked to Beau, however—so quick I might’ve missed it—she knew exactly what I meant. I pretended to ponder my words, tapping my chin with a finger.

“Well . . . Célie told me about a certain kiss.”

Those eyes narrowed in warning. “Célie needs to mind her business.”

“It sounds like you need to mind your business too.” I fought a grin at her abruptly murderous expression. “Come now. I thought you said honesty was sexy as hell?”

She yanked her arm from my shoulders, crossing it with her other. Huddling deeper within the blankets. “Don’t project what you and Reid have onto Beau and me. Ours isn’t a grand, sweeping romance. We aren’t star-crossed lovers. We were a casual hookup, and that’s all.”

“Coco, Coco, Coco.” I bumped her shoulder this time. “Who’s the liar now?”

“I’m not lying.”

“I thought you said honesty was raw? I thought you said it was intimate?”

She grimaced and looked away, clutching the locket at her chest. “Too raw. Too intimate.”

My grin slowly faded at the hurt in her words. “When was the last time you were vulnerable with anyone?”

“I’m vulnerable with you.”

But I didn’t count, and she knew it. I wracked my memory for each of Coco’s serious relationships—a witch named Flore, Babette, and Beau himself. I didn’t know if I should count Ansel. Those emotions had been serious, yes, but unrequited on both sides. “Is this . . . is this about Ansel?” I asked tentatively.

She shot me a sharp look. “No.” Then— “Well, not anymore.” Her shoulder slumped, and her arms fell loose at her sides. She stared at her palms in her lap. “It was, at first. But he—he visited me in the Wistful Waters, Lou.”

Moisture gathered in my eyes. “I know.”

She didn’t seem shocked by the revelation, her gaze instead turning inward. As if she hadn’t heard me at all. “He told me he wanted me to be happy. He said if Beau could do that, I shouldn’t hesitate.” She shook her head sadly. “But I don’t even know what happiness looks like.”

“Of course you do—”

“What I know,” she continued determinedly, speaking over me, “is that it isn’t Beau’s job to show me. It isn’t anyone’s job but mine. If I can’t make myself happy, how can he? How can my mother or my aunt or my kin?”

Ah. A beat of silence pulsed between us as the pieces clicked into place. I stared, longing to wrap my arms around her tense shoulders. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, Coco had been abandoned by everyone she’d dared to love. Except me. It was no coincidence she allowed herself to be vulnerable with just one person. Still . . . my heart ached when I looked to Beau, who cast covert looks in our direction every few seconds. “He isn’t them,” I whispered.

She sniffed in response. “He’s a prince.”

“You’re a princess.”

“We lead two different peoples. His will need him, and mine will need me. Look around, Lou.” She splayed her arms wide, as if Morgane and Josephine and Auguste stood here with us now. “Regardless of how this plays out in Cesarine, our kingdoms are not aligned. They never will be. We can have no future together.”

I arched a brow, parroting her own words. “You won’t know unless you try.” When she glared at me, saying nothing, I took her hands. “No, listen to me, Coco. If you don’t want Beau, fine. I promise I won’t say another word. But if you do want him—and if he wants you—the two of you will find a way. You’ll make it work.” Unbidden, I glanced back at the cabin door. “Only you can decide what your happiness looks like.”

She squeezed my hands tighter, tears sparkling. “I told you, Lou. I don’t know what my happiness looks like.”

“It’s fine not to know.” Abruptly, I pulled her to her feet, throwing my arms around her at last. Beau, Célie, and Jean Luc ceased their murmured conversation to watch us, startled. I ignored them. I didn’t care. “It isn’t fine to stop trying. We have to try, Coco, or we’ll never find it.”

Coco nodded against my cheek, and her words echoed in my ears.

Honesty goes beyond telling him who you used to be, who he used to be, who you used to be together. You need to show him.

Again, I looked to the cabin door. The anger remained, of course—ever stale—but the dread had been replaced with steely resolve. With newfound purpose. My happiness included Reid, and I would never stop fighting for him. Never stop trying. Coco followed my gaze with a small smile. Pushing me forward gently, she whispered, “Here’s to finding our happiness.”

Take Me to Church

Reid

I stooped to enter the cabin, nearly cracking my skull in the process, before straightening to inspect my sanctuary. A cluttered galley full of pots and pans to the right. A threadbare sofa straight ahead. A circular table. I crossed the cabin in two strides. A bed had been tucked behind tartan curtains at the bow of the ship. Two more strides. A second set of curtains hid another bed in the stern. The linens smelled faintly of mildew. Of salt and fish.

When my stomach gave an audible growl, I rummaged through the cabinets in search of food. It gave my hands purpose. My mind focus. Hunger had a solution. A clear, tangible solution. That pain could be cured with a loaf of hard bread, a jar of pickled vegetables. I stacked them both on the counter now. I cut the loaf with my knife. I uncorked the carrots and radishes. I searched for a plate, for a fork, without truly seeing. When I found them, I ate swiftly, determinedly, every movement efficient. Focused.

The pain in my stomach didn’t ease.

Guilt continued to churn until I shoved the plate away, disgusted with the carrots. With the boat. With myself.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

We’ll rescue you. I don’t know how, but we will. I promise.