Page 67 of Any Port in a Storm

“And when did you last have it?”

I fix my attention on the far side of the Charles. “A few years back.”

He sets down his coffee. “Oh?”

“Yep.”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. Because I’m certain he’ll read the answer in my eyes.

“Well,” Nick says slowly, ruffling his fingers through the grass beside my leg, “I can tell you about mine.”

I chance a look in his direction. “Okay.”

“Well, as you might have noticed, I’m a bit of a nerd.”

I burst out laughing. “No way!”

He chuckles, too. “When we were in Philadelphia, on our museum trip…” He shakes his head. “Seeing those artifacts just about made my life. And the way you got the curator to let me hold the Oscar Wilde letter?” His voice is reverent. “Chills, to this day, when I think about that.”

My heart pounds. Does he know?

“And then the dinner, and the dancing?” His smile lifts lazily. “Chef’s kiss.”

“That was a great day,” I agree, trying to still my breath.

Nick plays with the laces on his sneaker. “Not so much the way it ended, but the rest? My perfect day, for sure.”

Nodding slowly, I take a long draw of my coffee. It’s gotten cold in the hour we’ve been sitting here on the Esplanade, but it still tastes rich and sweet. My usual brand was out of stock, thanks to supply-chain issues, but Nick suggested an alternative that he and Max buy, and I think I like it even more.

I don’t know what to say, exactly, in reference to Nick’s perfect day. Because the way it ended—well, things got awkward. And before they got awkward…I swallow hard, trying to force down the heat sashaying excitedly through my body. That isn’t a memory I can entertain right now.

When I don’t reply, Nick tries again. “Okay, even if you can’t tell me about your perfect day, are you able to parse the subtext and figure out what made it special?”

The words “parse the subtext” reverberate through my mind. Has there been a single moment in our relationship focused on anything else?

“I probably could,” I say quietly.

“That might help.” Nick offers me a sandwich, which I accept gratefully. Neither of us had breakfast today. “If we can figure out the themes, we can start to match those up to career options.”

“Can I ask you something?” My voice comes out abrupt; a little too loud.

Nick doesn’t seem to mind. “Ask away.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He’s midway through a sip of coffee. “This?” he asks, brows knit together. “Well, because I stayed up far too late last night reading one of your poetry anthologies, and I need as much caffeine as I can get.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “No. I meant, why are you helping me?”

He shrugs; looks out over the water. “It’s all part of my job.”

“You’re not my teacher, Nick.”

“Ah, but I’ve never really been able to turn it off.”

“That’s certainly true.” The words are out before I can think better of them. Before it occurs to me how suggestive they sound.

He’s still watching the Charles, but I see his lips turn up. Something stirs beneath my navel. “I just meant, you’re really great at your job. A natural educator.”