Page 34 of The Last Lost Girl

A boy with brown, neatly coiffed hair strolls through the ship’s organized chaos looking very much like a character from Gatsby. His clothes aren’t wrinkled in the least and his shirt is buttoned to his neck. “Bonjour, hello,” he says in a charming French accent before picking up another crate to place next to mine. “You look like you could use some company.”

“And you look like you’ve been ordered to be said company,” I reply apologetically.

His eyes spark with amusement. “Oui, but I don’t think it will be a hardship on my part.”

He’s playful. Not what I expected from a member of Hook’s crew at all. Which makes him dangerous. Far more dangerous than someone outwardly surly would be.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“What is yours?” he volleys.

“I forgot.” I shrug.

He looks alarmed for a moment. “Already?”

I flash a grin at him and watch as his shoulders loosen.

“My friends call me Paris,” he volunteers as his brown eyes begin to positively smolder. Frenchmen are known for their charm and now I see why.

“Do you consider me a friend?” I tease.

“Of course,” he says with a flirtatious grin. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Because you just met me five seconds ago?

I laugh and shake my head. He reminds me of Devin, who can be incorrigible, but the levity he brings to my life is worth more than all the gold in the world. It’s so beautiful that a stranger can make you feel less alone.

The bow dips into a trough as we are dragged forward and my stomach dips. Paris reaches out to grab my arm and keep me from falling off the crate – which I completely would have done if he hadn’t intervened.

“Thanks. I don’t have my sea legs yet.” I try to smile. I’m about to ask Paris where we’re going when I get the sense that someone is watching us.

Hook stands on the quarter deck speaking with Smee as he expertly guides the wheel, and in turn, the ship. But he’s not looking at Smee. He is looking at us.

“What have you done to him?” Paris asks, curious.

“What?” I ask, tearing my eyes from Hook to question my assigned babysitter.

The Frenchman simply quirks an arrogant brow and gives me a look that implies I know exactly what he means. Instead he offers, “I’ve never seen him like this. Just watch his jaw tick.”

Hook’s jaw does exactly that, jumping every few seconds and relaxing again.

“Who knows what his problem is?” I wave off his implication.

But Paris’s glance tells me he thinks I’m a terrible liar.

I might know why Hook is upset, but Paris is misreading the pressing glances Hook casts our direction. The captain must have seen Belle’s pic on my phone. I would bet a thousand dollars that he addresses me by my name the next time he deigns to speak to me.

I wonder if the ship has a plank he’ll expect me to walk soon…

“Our captain is usually very calm and collected. But he has been tied up in knots since he brought you aboard,” Paris declares.

Instead of answering, I twist toward Paris to look over the rail at the churning water that speeds past.

The ship cuts through it faster and faster, rising and crashing into the sea like it’s waltzing with the waves, matching it step for step. As we move with every wave’s crest and trough, I hear the mermaid’s agonized cries.

Paris stares at the sea, too, but not at the water nearest the ship. He studies the horizon like it’s the bars of a cage. I suppose in a way, it is exactly that. If Hook could simply sail home, he would have.

That’s what Neverland seems to be. One cage inside of another, inside of another.

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