Page 62 of Any Port in a Storm

“I’m glad.” He tips the broccoli into a pot of boiling water and gestures to the far end of the counter. “Want to grab me that spoon?”

“Sure.” I hand it to him, doing the best compartmentalizing of my life to ignore the way heat from his fingers whirls beneath my skin as our hands brush. “Bruschetta chicken?”

His lips lilt lazily. “You know it.”

My thoughts skip merrily along to memories of late nights working on my dissertation and emerging from my room to see Nick plating this exact thing in my kitchen.

He’s always taken care of me like that.

“So, how was your day?” I grab two wine glasses from the cabinet and pull out a bottle of Pinot Grigio that my parents sent me back with the last time I visited. I make a mental note to call them tomorrow.

“Not bad. I’ve got about three-quarters of my students showing up for class these days, so I can’t complain.” He lowers the heat on the stove with a gentle flick of his wrist. “You?”

“About half,” I admit. “It’s been pretty depressing, to be honest.”

“I can imagine.”

“Hard not to let their obvious disinterest in my lectures impact my thoughts about my future, you know?”

Nick appraises me with a tender glance that, I’m quite confident, sees through to all my secrets. “It won’t always be like this, you know.”

“I hope you’re right.” I fight back tears. “It’s hard to imagine life beyond these four walls at the moment. I’ve been feeling more than a little claustrophobic.”

“I guess we need another trip to the Esplanade,” Nick says with a small smile.

I return the expression. “I suppose we do. Tomorrow?”

His eyes soften. “Tomorrow.”

We’re facing each other over the boiling pot of broccoli, steam mixing with the unspoken emotions swirling between us. Without thinking, I take a step closer.

“So,” Nick says, clearing his throat and shattering the illusion that we’ve traveled back in time a full calendar year, “how’d your homework go?”

I snort. “Fine. I was able to answer everything, aside from one question.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I had a bit of difficulty defining my perfect day.”

“Hmm. Well, we can work on that.” He hands me a plate. “Go sit down.”

“Always so bossy,” I tease.

“That’s me.”

We settle in at my table, facing off across a decade of tension and wanting and love. The food is delicious, and Nick is positively illuminated, telling a story about the lecture he’s working on for his freshmen. I feast on the sparkle in his eyes; the way his words worship the work he does. The way his hair falls across his forehead—I’m not sure he’ll ever learn to keep it neat. Not sure I’d ever want to him to.

I eat up every word that leaves his lips, sliding in and out of the moment. Seeing all the versions of our past selves, hovering in the ether all around us—like I could almost reach out and grab them. Pull them down and slip back into our old mindsets and biases and longings. Wear our history like a favorite outfit, molded to all our edges and curves, just like his favorite jeans. One that’s worn in all the right places.

One that’s just right in general.

“Laurel?” The cadence of Nick’s voice shifts, drags me from my reverie.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear the mist of memories.

“I was asking if you’d want to sit in on my Victorian Europe class tomorrow. We’ve got a virtual tour scheduled with the Tate in London, and you know what they have?”

I can’t fight my grin. “They have a whole bunch of Pre-Raphaelite stuff.”