Page 77 of Any Port in a Storm

I shut the balcony door. “Do we have the ingredients for that?”

“It’s basically just beef and broth. And a little mirepoix. No big deal.”

“Our ideas of what constitutes a big deal differ wildly.”

That makes him laugh, and I love it. I love the way it rumbles out of his chest and straight into mine, an avalanche of affection that’s too powerful to escape.

Sidling up next to him at the stove, I toss an arm over his shoulders. “How can I help?”

“I don’t need help; I’m almost done here. But I do need you to go do your homework.”

My arm slides down to his waist. “My what?”

His eyes twinkle from three inches away. “I left you an assignment. Over on the table.”

“I thought I’d already graduated from this academy.”

“Until we’ve got your future sorted, I’m afraid your attendance remains compulsory.” He reaches out and taps my nose with his pointer finger, a gesture I’m pretty sure was meant to feel friendly, but which sends me immediately spiraling into a pit of wanting.

“Mm,” I manage. “What if I need help?”

Nick’s smile lights up my whole world. “That’s why you’ve got me.”

“Well, thank you.”

Across the top of the paper, Nick’s written, “Pretend you work at the Tate. Explain what makes Ophelia special and why it matters, both to literature and to art.”

“You’re quite possibly the world’s largest nerd, you know.”

“And that,” he waves a ladle around with a flourish, “is precisely why you and I as friends makes so much sense.”

Torn between laughing and blushing, I bury my eyes in my paper.

After dinner, I can barely focus on the show we’re watching, even though it’s absolutely batshit crazy—some reality thing about a man who runs an exotic zoo and starts a blood feud with a crazy cat lady. The whole time we’re sitting on the couch, Nick on the first cushion and me on the third, I’m thinking about the cushion between us. About how he cooked for me, again. About how describing what Ophelia means to art and literature is the most vocational enjoyment I’ve had in months. Maybe even longer.

And, most devastatingly of all, I’m thinking about the way Nick said, “enjoying you.” Like what he really meant was “I’m enjoying the idea of you fully naked in my bed.”

Except, of course, Nick no longer has a bed. He has the couch, on which we’re both now seated.

My mind is positively rabid with images of Nick and me naked here together.

I’ve got to stop.

Grabbing the remote, I pause the show just as something catches on fire, which feels an oddly perfect parallel to my life. “I found some adjunct jobs to apply to,” I say abruptly, quickly grasping for the least sexy possible topic of conversation.

“But no tiger keeper jobs?” Nick asks in mock horror.

I snort. “Nope.”

He pulls one knee up, turning to face me. “Which ones?”

“Um. Briarford. Pomona. U of A. Boston Commonwealth University.”

Nick nods. “Nice.”

“When you say ‘which ones,’” I hedge, “you make it sound like you’re familiar with the current bank of available English professorial roles.”

He blinks twice, then barely inclines his head.