Page 104 of Any Port in a Storm

“Hmm,” he considers. “I suppose I could consider training you.”

“Ha! Training me?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It never hurts to have a protégé.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yep.” He throws his arm around my shoulders. “But I think you like it.”

“Oh, there’s no question about that.”

The next day, my legs are still hurting, so I beg off going jogging. “I promise, I’ll come tomorrow.”

Nick’s face is flush with concern. “Yeah, of course. Why don’t you just sit? I’ll make you lunch when I get back.”

“You’re the sweetest; oh my goodness.” I wrap him in a huge hug, then practically trip over him on his way out the door when my right leg gives out from under me.

His concern intensifies. “I’m going to walk you to the couch, and I don’t want you to get up until I get back. You might’ve strained something.”

I wave him off. “I’m sure I’m fine.”

“Maybe so. But how easy is it going to be to get you to a doctor right now?”

“Okay, point taken. I’ll wait here.”

Nick sets me up with water, two books, my phone, and my laptop, then kisses my forehead before he leaves.

Thank god I’m sitting down, because I just about melt. Everything that’s happening here feels sweet and languid and wholesome, even given all the sex—this is the real deal, I think. The love people wait an entire lifetime for.

Even though it’s only been eight years, it does feel like we’ve been waiting forever.

I try to read my book, but I spend most of the time Nick’s out daydreaming about the tender look on his face when he kissed me just now. The way he manages to make me feel simultaneously aroused and amused and affectionate; the way I would be equally happy mapping his erogenous zones as sitting by his side and watching the river in silence.

Even given the chaos swirling in the world outside, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite this happy.

My romantic musings are quickly followed by the sobering realization that, while we’ve soft-launched our tentative reconciliation to his family, I still haven’t even told my parents that he’s here. The look on his face when he reminded me I never told them we were together last spring lodges in my mind.

He deserves better.

I grab my phone off the coffee table and quickly dial my parents’ house number.

“Hello?” I haven’t heard my father’s gravelly baritone in ages—he’s typically working when I call.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me.” Brilliant though he is, my father has never quite grasped the concept of caller ID.

“Oh, hello, Laurel. Let me get your mother.”

“Oh,” I rush. “Well, okay. But maybe you could stay on the line, too?”

“All right. I can do that.” His surprise comes through in every syllable. “Just a moment.”

I absently curl my hair around my finger. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.

“Hey, honey,” my mom says. “Dad and I are both here. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I reassure her. “Just…I wanted to tell you something.”

I can practically hear her confusion in the silence. Because we don’t share. Not really.