Page 26 of Any Port in a Storm

I take a shaky breath. “I don’t want to lose you, either.”

“Okay then,” he says, a small smile springing to life. “New roommate rule: we’re going to put the past behind us.”

I feel some of my tension melt away at his words. “I’ll agree to those terms.”

“Friends?” He holds out his hand.

I reach for it without hesitation, and something airy rises in my soul. “Friends.”

EIGHT

six years earlier

“Smile,” Grace singsongs from behind her phone.

I do as she asks, trying to ignore the way Nick’s hand feels on the small of my back.

“Nick, move in a little closer to Laurel.” Grace has appointed herself chief photographer ahead of the autumn formal, but I suspect it’s all a ruse so she can play matchmaker.

If the smirk on her face is any indication, anyway, I’m spot on.

Nick closes the distance between us, tightening his arm around my waist. “She’s a menace.”

“You’re telling me,” I whisper.

“Always you two with the secrets.” Grace rolls her eyes playfully just as a knock sounds at the door of our apartment. “Oh! That’ll be Roger.” She hurriedly snaps a photo, then tosses her phone onto the couch and smooths her hair. I’d convinced her to pin her braid into a tiara atop her head, and we even wove in a few flowers to add to the aesthetic.

“I look like a wood nymph,” she’d groaned when she looked in the mirror.

“You’re gorgeous,” I’d promised, squeezing her hand. “And Roger’s going to think so, too.”

“I think…I really like him, Laur.”

“I should certainly hope so,” I tease. “You’ve only talked about him nonstop for the last three weeks.”

Looking at Roger and Grace now, shyly chatting in the doorway, I’m feeling pretty confident the sentiment is mutual.

“He’s got it bad,” I say to Nick.

“How can you tell?”

“Body language. See how their feet are angled toward each other?”

Nick wrinkles his nose. “That’s just a polite conversation stance.”

I laugh loudly. “Conversation stance?”

“Yes,” he insists, grabbing my arm and pulling me to face him. “Like this.”

My gaze catches on his. “I can make eye contact without having my feet angled toward you.” I demonstrate by turning my hips to the door, then I cross my arms and stick my tongue out at him.

“See, you don’t have a polite conversation stance regardless, because you’re not being particularly polite.”

I shake my head in mock annoyance. “You’re ridiculous. I’m going to grab my purse, then we should go.”

“Seems to me like you’re running away because you lost the argument,” he calls after me.

“I don’t lose arguments,” I retort over my shoulder. “And, in any case, I thought we were having a ‘conversation.’”