Page 83 of Any Port in a Storm

I guess I’ll have to rely on Nick for at least one more day in that department. It’s so late in the morning, there’s no way he hasn’t started the coffee yet.

I’ll probably have just enough time to scrape myself and my lecture together and sign on to the meeting. Not ideal, but all things considered, it could be worse.

Unfortunately, all my harried plans come crashing down the minute I swing open the bathroom door, when I collide directly into Nick.

And he’s completely, totally naked.

“Oh my god!” I spin around and cover my face with my hands. “I’m so sorry!” The afterimage of Nick in all his naked glory is burned into my corneas. Given the night I had—the thoughts I’ve been entertaining—this is quite possibly the worst thing that could be happening right now.

“No, I’m sorry!” I hear the squeal of the towel bar; wet footsteps on the tile floor.

A moment later, damp hands peel my fingers off my eyes. “Hey.”

I raise my lashes to find Nick standing in front of me, dripping wet, a towel tied tightly around his waist.

“Sorry about that,” he says again.

I shake my head. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

“I went out for a run this morning,” he explains. “I figured I’d take advantage of the sunshine. Normally I don’t shower at this time of day, but you were sleeping in, and…I hadn’t quite made it to my towel yet.”

I smile in spite of myself. “Of course not.”

“Of course not what?”

“Of course not, you wouldn’t have your towel.” He’s staring at me blankly, so I tack on, “Of course you’d be naked.”

His brows skate up his forehead. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This.” I poke the center of his chest. “It’s distracting.”

Touching him was a bad idea. Especially because he’s in a towel. Desire settles like a fine mist over every coherent thought in my mind.

His confusion shifts to a smirk. “My chest is distracting?”

“Yes.”

“How do you think I feel?”

I go hot all over. “What?”

Nick takes a step closer; looks directly into my eyes. “You’ve always been distracting.”

My jaw drops, and I think I’m about to hyperventilate, but Nick walks past me. “There’s coffee ready for you in the kitchen.”

“Th..thanks,” I manage.

When all is said and done, I am several minutes late to class.

I blush every time I see Nick today—when I fetch my phone charger from my nightstand during his lecture; when he tiptoes past me to borrow my poetry anthology while I’m on the phone with my mom. When he grabs my hand to show me a family of ducks during our walk at the Esplanade.

I can’t stop thinking about him. In his towel. With no towel. And even more than that, I can’t stop thinking about how he keeps showing up for me. Despite everything that happened, it’s like he can’t turn it off.

He brings me an afternoon coffee while I’m teaching my second class of the day, which short-circuits my brain for more than thirty seconds. One of my students even asks if I’ve lost the connection.

I’ve definitely lost something, that’s for sure. My sense of self-preservation, perhaps. My resolution that exploring my feelings for Nick is actually a terrible idea.

But when he casually slips my Ophelia homework off my desk while I’m buried in lesson planning and reads it with a smile on his face at the dining room table, I realize I don’t have a choice anymore.