Page 41 of Fire and Ice Cruise

“Come to mama,” I breathe, making a beeline for the spread.

Tiny cucumber sandwiches cut into perfect triangles, smoked salmon on pumpernickel, chocolate-dipped strawberries the size of my fist, lemon tarts with peaks of meringue browned on top, cheese and crackers arranged in an elaborate spiral, and a chocolate fountain burbling away in the corner, ringed by fresh fruit and marshmallows like worshippers at an altar.

The Emerald Queen has two love languages—chocolate fountains and champagne fountains—and she speaks both fluently and without apology. Nettie, on the other hand, seems to destroy both fluently, which explains the involuntary twitch I’ve developed every time I see her near a fountain.

“This is why I come to these things,” Nettie announces, loading her plate with reckless abandon.

“I thought you came for the educational content,” Bess says dryly.

“I can be educated and well-fed,” Nettie shoots back. “It’s called multitasking.”

Marina and I grab our own plates and pile on enough food to make the afternoon worthwhile, regardless of how awkward the lecture gets.

Ransom and Wes opted out of this particular event—something about “respecting our female bonding time”—which really means they’re hiding in the sports bar watching football, or on the bridge. Smart men.

The lounge is filling up fast. I spot Silas sitting near the front, looking slightly uncomfortable in a room full of women about to discuss intimacy. Holland stands at a small podium near the windows, shuffling note cards and looking nervous but excited.

Nicolette appears beside us with her own plate—though hers contains exactly three strawberries and nothing else, which seems like a crime against buffet tables everywhere.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says warmly. “Holland is wonderful at this. She and Silas teach workshops all over the country.”

“On intimacy?” I ask.

“On reinvention in general, but yes, intimacy is part of it.” Nicolette takes a slow survey of the room, and for half a second her polish slips, showing something underneath—satisfaction, maybe, or vindication. “Gideon was supposed to moderate this session, but Holland graciously agreed to do it solo.”

“She seems nervous,” Marina observes as she looks over at Holland.

“Wouldn’t you be? Talking about sex and desire to a room full of strangers?” Nicolette pops a strawberry in her mouth. “Although between you and me, I think she’s more comfortable talking about it than actually doing it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

She leans in. “Let’s just say the Rowens have a very aesthetically pleasing marriage. Everything looks perfect on the outside.”

“And on the inside?”

“Who knows?” She straightens, her legal eagle mask sliding back into place. “I shouldn’t gossip. Enjoy the lecture, ladies.”

She drifts off to claim a seat near the front, and I exchange glances with Bess and Nettie.

“That was weird,” Nettie says.

“Weird is one word for it,” I say. Another word for it is clue.

We settle into chairs near the middle of the room—close enough to see Holland’s expressions but far enough back to make a quick exit if things get too uncomfortable. Marina sits beside me, her plate balanced on her lap, and I notice she’s chosen a seat with a clear view of the door.

Great minds think alike—and what we’re thinking now is escape route.

Holland clears her throat, and the room quiets. She’s wearing a flowing red tunic over wide-leg jeans, her honey-highlighted hair loose around her shoulders, and she radiates that breezy warmth I’ve come to associate with her.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she begins, her voice is soft, but it carries well. “Thank you so much for joining me today. I know talking about intimacy can feel awkward, especially in a room full of people we’ve just met, but I promise this will be a safe space.”

“Define safe,” someone mutters from the back, and nervous laughter ripples through the crowd.

Holland smiles. “Safe means judgment-free. Safe means we can talk about desire, dating, and second chances without pretending we have all the answers.”

She glances at her note cards, then sets them aside.

“I’m going to be honest with you. When Silas and I started teaching these workshops five years ago, I thought I had intimacy figured out. We’d been married for decades, we had a successful business, we looked good together.” She pauses, and something vulnerable crosses her face. “But looking good together and being truly intimate are two very different things. And it took me until my late forties to realize I’d been performing intimacy instead of experiencing it.”