Page 63 of Any Port in a Storm

He’s beaming, too. “Yep. The curator will be the only one in the building, thanks to the lockdowns, so we should be able to see a ton of their collections. She’s going to talk a little bit about their acquisitions process, and also about general museum studies stuff. Several of my students are considering that as a career path, so I wanted to help them see the role in action. Would’ve been nice to do it in person, somewhere in Boston, but…”

“This is still great,” I reassure him. “You’re a fabulous professor.”

“Yeah?” His eyes are bright on me.

“Yeah. In fact,” I say, feeling the sudden urge to reach for his hand, which is lying just inches from mine on the table, “you’ve done such a good job here tonight that you helped me remember the most important thing.”

“The most important thing?”

“Yes.” I beam him pure joy. “You helped me remember what defines my perfect day.”

EIGHTEEN

four years earlier

“Ipromise, you’re going to love it.” Nick’s watching with great amusement as I glare at my plate.

“I feel fairly confident no one loves this.” I gesture toward the black pudding taunting me from beside a fried egg and half a grilled tomato.

He haughtily spears a piece of his own black pudding and pops it into his mouth.

I almost vomit.

Nick bursts out laughing. “Come on, Laurel. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

It doesn’t escape my attention that he’s parroting his own words from our very first coffee date. “I must have left it back at my apartment.”

“How many times have I eaten your weird foods?”

I cross my arms in protest. “To what are you referring?”

He lowers his fork. “Well, the falafel, for one.”

“Falafel is delicious!”

“It’s a ball of fried beans.”

Now I’m laughing, too. “You should absolutely never work in food service.”

“Of course not. I’m committed to the path of the impoverished scholar.”

“Well, of course,” I tease.

He reaches for my plate. “You don’t have to eat it. Here, I’ll take yours so you don’t even have to look at it.”

I consider his earnest expression, thinking about how excited he’d been to invite me over for a traditional Irish breakfast to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. “I have a lecture that night, so we can’t go out,” he’d said. “But come over in the morning. I’ll cook for you.” It had been such a sweet offer, and he’d tried so hard. He even went so far as to put a little vase with a carnation on the kitchen island. “Just to fancy things up,” he’d explained.

“I’ll eat it,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You really don’t have to.”

“No.” I grab his hand and put it back in his lap, trying to ignore how the contact sends little swirls of heat racing beneath my skin. “You made a lovely breakfast. It would be horrible of me not to at least taste it.”

“If you’re sure.”

I cut a piece of the pudding, forcing my thoughts to go anywhere but what I’m about to eat. I consider the lecture I’m teaching this afternoon; the research I need to do for my dissertation. How I have to pick up some new ice packs for Grace—her last one burst, and she has to give herself a biologic injection tomorrow.

Bringing my fork to my lips, I close my eyes and take a bite as quickly as possible.