Page 60 of Any Port in a Storm

Hearing him discuss his lower half is not helping my efforts to ignore how hot he looks right now. I pull up a job board, desperate for a distraction.

“Want some oatmeal?” Nick asks from the kitchen.

“Oh. Sure, thanks.” There’s a middle-school English teacher position opening up at a school in Cambridge, and an entry-level magazine editor role in Allston, but otherwise, I see nothing that would even remotely align with the PhD I’m about to earn. Sighing, I shut my laptop. I’m not in the right headspace to spiral to the depths of despair right now.

“I left your homework on your desk,” Nick says, walking a bowl of oatmeal and a mug of coffee over to me. “Just there.” He nudges my right hand, under which I now spot a sheet of paper that says “Laurel’s Strategic Plan” in Nick’s angular handwriting.

“I’m sorry, what?” I grab it and start to read. “Describe your perfect day? Identify your tolerance for paperwork?” I shake my head. “Nick, what is this?”

He fights a laugh. “This is your assignment for today. Fill it out when you get a chance, and we’ll go over it tonight.”

“But—”

“I’m helping you figure out your next steps, remember?” Nick throws me a lazy grin that, were I less shocked, would probably have struck me as beyond attractive.

Okay, it still strikes me as beyond attractive.

But I’m confused regardless.

“I didn’t realize you were taking this so seriously,” I manage after a moment.

“Laurel.” He stops, mid-pour with the coffee carafe, to fix me with a look of feigned offense. “I take everything seriously.”

I don’t bury my snort in time.

“I promise,” he says, hand held high in an oath, “I have loads of experience molding young minds.”

“Oh, I’m a young mind, am I?”

He leans against the kitchen counter and crosses his arms, striking an exquisite balance between smug and smoldering. “Well, you’re young compared to me.”

“Right.” I take a spoonful of oatmeal. It’s sweet and warm; the perfect mix of cozy and satisfying, without being cloying. “Thanks for the oatmeal.”

“You’re welcome. It’s all part of the plan.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.” He grabs his own bowl. “Now do your homework, and meet me for dinner at six. I’m cooking.”

My brows skate up of their own accord. “Is this somehow related to you helping me with my career? Or are you just sick of eating the tuna sandwiches I’ve been making?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Fascinating.”

He slides into a chair in the dining room. “What is?”

“Your commitment to this bit.” I twirl my ponytail. “I’m impressed.”

Nick wrinkles his forehead. “It’s not a bit. I actually want to help you.”

I’m struggling to decide how this display of consideration is making me feel. Touched, certainly. Nostalgic for a time when it wouldn’t seem quite so shocking that Nick would do something cute like make me job-search homework or plan a secret dinner for me. Warm and fuzzy inside, definitely.

And, on some level, I’m also feeling extremely confused. Confused about the heat simmering beneath my skin; the blush I’m pretty sure is staining my cheeks. The glow that seems to be radiating with greater and greater intensity from my core, threatening to burst outward and reveal itself.

The way that, even with everything that’s changed, this feels so familiar. It’s just Nick. And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Nick’s always had an uncanny ability to make me feel utterly taken care of.

And I guess the fact that I still feel that way now, despite the vast gulf of everything between us, is why I murmur a gentle “Thank you,” pick up a pen, and start writing, as if this worksheet is real.