Page 19 of Any Port in a Storm

His pupils are dark, his eyes hooded as he considers me from the kitchen. At last, he cracks a smile. “My only question is why I should care about a bunch of wealthy English dudes.”

“Again,” I say, closing my book and crossing to get more coffee, “they’re not all men.”

He grabs the carafe and refills my mug with a flourish. “So tell me about her.”

I cock my head. “Who?”

“The woman you’re idolizing in this group. I know she’s the reason you’re so enamored with them.”

I do everything in my power to hide my shock; to mask it with feigned offense. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because,” he says softly, his accent tumbling through, “I know you. It’s how you are with Spillinger; with your mom. Your cousin. With Grace. You lift up other women, Laurel, and it’s absolutely beautiful to watch. You want the world to see what makes them great.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and my breath hitches at the touch. “To see them the way you do.”

My mom grew up during the peak of second-wave feminism, and she raised me to champion it with my whole heart. She works at a girls’ high school, and my entire childhood was filled with stories of the incredible things her students did. Their passion, their courage, their wit. It’s hard for me not to see the beauty and value other women bring to the table.

But I don’t think anyone has ever touted that as one of my strengths before. Especially not a man.

“It’s Christina Georgina Rossetti,” I admit after a moment.

A self-satisfied look descends over his features. Even though he’s giving me a hard time, I so badly want to throw myself at him.

“What did she write?”

I sip my coffee, which has gone rather cold in the hour it’s been languishing in the pot. I’d invited Nick to stop by after his evening seminar. It’s been over a week since we’ve found time to get together, so even though it’s nine o’clock on a weeknight, and both socializing and caffeinating felt fairly inadvisable, his was a quick yes.

“Poems, mostly. Her brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, was sort of the Pre-Raphaelite ringleader, and she did a lot of writing that mirrored his—her Monna Innominata, for instance. It’s very reminiscent of his House of Life sonnets. But in general, it was more just that her work fit the group’s MO—honoring life, and nature, in its truest, most vibrant form.”

“I’ll have to check her out.”

I cross back to the table and grab my book. “Here.” I press it against his chest. His fingers close over mine as he takes it. “Borrow this. I’m done with it for now anyway.”

“But what will you read to amp yourself up in the morning?” he teases.

I shove the book into his sternum again. “Maybe the 95 Theses.”

His laughter is immediate. “Oh, Laurel. You kill me.”

“Well, that seems bad.”

“Not bad.” His eyes flick down to my lips, and I pretend not to notice. “Distracting. But not bad.”

I toss my hair over my shoulder, trying with everything in me to fight the growing urge to crush my mouth to his. “Well, I have been known to be very distracting to the menfolk.”

A brow goes up. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm. I’m responsible for crashing an awful lot of ships.”

“What are you, a mermaid?”

I sip my coffee. “Uh uh. Siren.”

He snorts. “Now that, I’d like to see.”

Heat floods my face, dripping beads of lust down my chest and through my core. “Sirens are…half-naked, Nicholas.”

He tenses beside me. “Um. That’s not what I meant.”

Embarrassment whooshes in to replace the lust. I hate myself for taking it there; for making things awkward between us.