Page 59 of Any Port in a Storm

I almost drop the remote when I see a tear rolling down his cheek.

“Oh my god, are you crying?”

“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I mean, yes. A little.”

Warmth oozes from my heart all the way up my throat, and my next words come out a little fuzzy. “Aw. Did I convert you?”

He chokes out a laugh and swipes at his eyes. “I guess maybe I’m an American at heart after all.”

I shimmy closer and wrap him in a tight hug. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

His cheek is warm against the hollow of my neck. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Thanks for coming to my rescue tonight.”

“Hey.” He pulls back and looks straight into my soul. “I’m always here for you, Laurel. Whatever you need.”

I’m melting, I’m pretty sure. Whatever this thing is between us, it’s turning my insides to utter mush.

I push through the emotions and manage a wry smile. “I might need more of menacing, chivalry Nick.”

He pushes the hair from my face, and my breaths quicken. “I’ll be menacing, chivalry Nick for you any day of the week.”

The glow of the looping DVD menu casts shadows on his face that dance in time with his eyes as they flicker between mine, like they’re looking for somewhere to land. I’m burning up; losing myself to whatever is taking over my brain and turning it to a pile of goo.

“And this is why you’re my Del,” I joke.

A formidable flush races to mask his laugh lines. “I don’t know that John Candy and I have much in common.”

“No,” I say, snuggling up against him. “But I sure as hell am glad I brought you home for Thanksgiving.”

He smiles then, and we put on Die Hard, and just before I fall asleep in his arms, it hits me that I don’t think my heart has ever felt so full.

SEVENTEEN

now

On the last morning of our initial two-week quarantine, I come out of my room, ready for a full day of remote teaching in my blue wrap dress, which I managed to recover from a pile of laundry.

Nick’s cooking a pot of oatmeal at the stove, wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He’s also wearing his gray sweats.

I don’t know what it is, exactly, but a man in gray sweatpants does something to me. It’s a look that strikes me as both unflinchingly casual and irredeemably sexy.

Rather than give in to it, I rush to my desk and fill the air with banter.

“That’s quite the outfit.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I thought it was pretty dapper, also.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use.”

His smile grows. “Debonair?”

“Yes, Nick. Your sweatpants are debonair.”

“Well,” he says, turning back to the stove, “it’s not like anybody’s going to see my lower half while I’m giving my lecture this morning.”