Page 95 of Any Port in a Storm

“I would,” he grins, licking cream filling off his finger in a way that has me tracking the path of his tongue. “And you might want one, too. You’re going to need plenty of fuel for the day I have planned.”

I pause, mid-chew, to stare at him.

His brows go up. “What?”

“You were serious about planning the entire weekend?”

“Laurel,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I’m a professor. My entire job is lesson planning. I can’t just turn it off.”

Max squeezes his temples. “You certainly do have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Right?” I tease.

“Whatever,” Nick says, pretending to roll our mockery off with a hitch of his shoulders. “Tomorrow, you’re going to be thanking me for the distraction.”

The next morning, I wake up to a knock on the door.

“The hell?” I blearily rub my eyes and throw on my bathrobe, stumbling toward the entryway.

Nick’s holding two coffees and the box from Mike’s Pastry, and he hands me a to-go cup as soon as I open the door.

“Um. Thanks?” I take a sip as he strides purposefully past me and plops down on my couch.

“We did say nine, right?”

My mind races back over our conversation last night. It was after midnight by the time Nick walked me home, and I had such a long week—not even the sharp chill in the air had been enough to keep me alert.

“I think maybe we did?” I say, pulling my robe more tightly around myself when I remember I’m not wearing a bra. “Sorry; I forgot to set an alarm.”

He’s already flipping through a library book I left on my coffee table. “No worries. Whenever you’re ready, we can eat, and then we can go.”

“Go?”

His grin radiates mischief. “Do you have a bathing suit?”

My stomach tumbles around like a children’s gymnastics class.“Ye—yes?”

“Great. You’ll need it.”

I cross my arms. “Where are we going?”

“I’d have thought you might be able to piece this together, doctoral student that you are.”

I toss a pillow at his head. “I need some cannoli.”

He laughs. “Told you.”

An hour later, we’re waist-deep in chlorine at the campus pool. “Would you believe I’ve never made it down here?” I ask, skimming my palm across the surface.

“You know, I would.” He flicks a stream of water at me.

“Hey!” I splash him back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Amusement creeps in. “You’re not the most…athletic woman I’ve ever met.”

“I get plenty of exercise.”

“Oh, for sure,” he says airily. “Stress is a great cardiovascular workout.”