Page 11 of Any Port in a Storm

eight years earlier

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Laurel?”

I look up at Nick over my book. He’s leaning against the back rail of his chair in a decidedly attractive way, sipping a black tea.

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I say wryly.

“The debate’s going to be fun. And all you have to do is memorize a few position statements.”

Nick’s pulling out all the stops to convince me to go to the Crusades debate at next week’s history club meeting.

“I know I promised I’d go, but…I just feel like my knowledge of history pales in comparison to yours.”

“So?”

I sigh loudly. “So I don’t want to seem like an idiot. Also, way to not say something reassuring, like, ‘No, Laurel, you’re just as smart as I am.’”

He leans forward on his elbows. “I suspect you’re much smarter than I am.” My face heats. “But I probably do know more about history than you.”

“See?”

“I have an entire degree and a half on you, in that exact subject. But if we were to talk about British poets, or what have you?” He shakes his head. “No contest.”

I bring my Americano to my lips, considering. “But the debate’s about the Crusades.”

“You’d be fine. I promise.”

“I don’t know.” I can’t quite explain it, but I have an almost earth-shattering aversion to the idea of humiliating myself in front of Nick.

His gaze is intent on my face. “I’m just asking you to trust me.”

I can’t handle how his staring at me is making me feel, so I attempt to play it off with humor. “We just met, and I don’t know anything about you. How can I trust you?”

His mouth tips up at the corner. “What do you want to know?”

Everything, I want to shout. I tamp down whatever is urging me toward pure insanity and demur, “Whatever you’d like to tell me is fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll tell you three things about myself. My only caveat is you have to do the same.”

His accent is lilting, easing its way in and out of turns of phrase like a boat on the waves. Honestly, it’s intoxicating to listen to him.

“Deal,” I agree.

“Perfect.”

My heart races at the sparkle in his eyes. They’re so, so blue, and they’re still trained directly on me from across the table in the campus café.

“Okay, I’ll start.” He sets his cup down. “I grew up in Ireland.”

A giggle bubbles up before I can stop it. “That doesn’t count.”

“Why not?” His dark eyebrows, barely visible beneath the mess of his hair, rise questioningly up his forehead.

“Because it’s obvious.”

“Is it?” His face is pure stoicism, but I can see a laugh edging in at the corners of his mouth.

“Come on. You sound exactly like Cillian Murphy.”