Page 28 of Any Port in a Storm

Something flips in my chest.

“What if he didn’t break your heart?” Grace asks softly, tracking my gaze. “What if it was just…right?”

I consider the possibility. If I could be with Nick and know nothing would go wrong, would I do it?

“I guess that would be different,” I murmur after a moment.

Grace lays her hand on my forearm. “I’m just asking you to consider it. I want you to be happy, Laurel.”

“White wine for the lady,” Nick says suavely, sidling up behind me and handing me a plastic cup.

Maybe it’s the way his cheeks look a little pink beneath his freckles here in the packed ballroom, or maybe it’s because of what Grace just said, but before I can think better of it, I say, “Want to dance with me?”

“But I just brought you wine.”

I meet his gaze, even though it feels dangerous—something I could get lost in, without any hope of escape. “The wine will be here when we get back.” I set my cup on the cocktail table Grace and Roger are leaning on. “Come on.”

When I grab Nick’s hand, I can’t help but notice the way his lips slide into an easy grin.

“So,” he asks as we find an empty spot on the dance floor. “Which decade is your dress from?”

I put my arms on his shoulders, trying to leave enough distance between our faces that we can carry on a conversation. It’s a moot point, though, when he slides his hands around my waist, because I almost lose the ability to speak entirely.

“This one, I guess,” I manage after a deep breath.

He raises an eyebrow. “And to think you were the one defending the concept of the decades dance.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I was coming in costume.”

Nick’s eyes sweep over me. “1970s.”

“I bought this dress at Macy’s three years ago.”

“No, I just mean—your aura.” I think his hand tightens ever so slightly against the small of my back. “You’re classic, but in a really hard-working, feminist kind of way. I think you’d fit right in back in the ‘70s.”

I can’t control the warmth that floods my soul. Or my face. “That’s probably what I’d choose for myself, too.” I consider him carefully. “I think you might be more of a 1940s kind of guy.”

He bursts out laughing. “I’ve never worn my pants halfway up my chest, so I don’t think so.”

“No, silly,” I say, realizing too late that it sounds incredibly flirtatious. “You have the same vibe—steady. Moral.” I gulp down my inhibitions. “And you look awfully good in a suit.”

Now it’s Nick’s turn to look embarrassed, but he packs it in pretty quickly. “Well, thank you.” He clears his throat. “Is that specific to the ‘40s?”

I shrug. I hadn’t really thought this through; words just tumbled out of my mouth as I felt them.

“Hmm,” he muses, eyes flicking gently down to my mouth. “Well, if I didn’t tell you, you look beautiful tonight.”

Grace’s words flash through my mind. “What if it was just…right?”

“Thank you,” I say softly. Gathering all the courage I can muster, I start, “There’s actually something I wanted to⁠—”

“Hey, Laurel!” booms a voice from behind me.

I drop one arm from Nick’s shoulder, where it had been inching toward his scapula as I subconsciously drifted closer to his chest. When I turn my head in the direction of the booming voice, I see that it’s Sam.

“Oh, hey, Sam.” I pull my other arm away and gesture to Nick. “This is Nick O’Connor. Nick, Sam Kowalski. We take physics together.”

I can practically feel Nick tense up beside me, even though there’s now a good six inches between us. “Nice to meet you,” he says stiffly.