Page 75 of Any Port in a Storm

“Just enjoying you,” he murmurs.

A zing of electricity rushes through my core, to my belly and lower. I can feel heat rising in my cheeks, so I make a big show of leaning over to rub my ankle, hoping he won’t notice.

“Enjoying me?” I chance after I’m confident I can modulate my voice.

When I look at him again, I see a battle raging on his face—he’s clearly torn between utter humiliation and brutal honesty.

This is the problem with us. We know each other too well.

I say nothing. This can be his penance for what happened with Spillinger.

“I’m enjoying your enjoyment,” he mumbles at last.

I flash him a bright grin. “I do enjoy it. This is one of my favorite paintings.”

“I know that,” he replies immediately.

“Oh.” Warmth cascades out of my heart, flooding every cell of my body. “How do you know that?”

“Laurel, please,” he scoffs. “You let me borrow your book, remember?”

My mind races back to our late-night coffee date, some six years ago now. The look on his face when I pressed my Pre-Raphaelite book against his chest. The way the conversation took a turn to me being a siren who lured men…to how I called him professor…

The heat rolls merrily along, hitting my hairline.

“Right. I guess I do remember that.”

“Yeah.” He props his chin on his hand. “And you had a whole bunch of notes on that page.”

“So you just knew?”

“Yep.” He drags his gaze to meet mine. “I just knew.”

I get lost in his eyes then. They’re so, so blue—like nature was showing off when it made him. “Look how vibrant blue can be,” I imagine it saying. I don’t even paint, but I want to paint this—the colors of Nick. His irises; his spirit. The way he makes me feel.

I want to put it on canvas so someone else, a century and a half from now, can see how amazing he was. So people browsing the galleries of mankind’s antiquity can marvel at his vibrance like I do.

“And here’s another Millais.” Stacy’s voice breaks me from my reverie. “You might recognize this one, too.”

I clear my throat; take a sip of my iced tea, the last dregs of an ice cube slipping away into languid streams at the bottom of the glass. “Well, it’s great that this was part of Stacy’s tour.”

“Oh, it wasn’t.” He’s still looking at me.

I choke on my drink. “What?”

“I asked her to add this,” he says, giving me a shy glance. “I wanted to make sure you had the chance to see it.”

“Nick.” My voice comes out thick. “I⁠—”

“Shh,” he whispers, pointing to his laptop. “You don’t want to miss this Millais.”

“Right,” I say, forcing my attention back to the computer; still seeing his afterimage with every blink.

“I’m not sure what to make of it,” I’m telling Grace on the phone the next day. Nick’s in my room with the door shut, giving a lecture to his Intro to Historiography class, and I snuck out to the balcony under the guise of needing to focus on my job search. Instead, I sat and stared at the cherry blossom tree, now in full, glorious bloom beside me, for the better part of an hour before I gave up and dialed Grace.

“Really?”

“Really,” I say, choosing to ignore her sarcasm.