Page 21 of Any Port in a Storm

“I still don’t know where we’re going,” she mutters.

“All in good time,” Nick says, turning the engine over. He flips on an oldies station, and a Steve Winwood song fills the car. “I’ve always liked this one,” he remarks.

“You would,” I joke.

“Not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” he grumbles, easing us down the road toward the waterfront.

“She means that you’re an old man,” Grace supplies cheerfully.

I cackle. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“So much.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Nick mutters, glaring at me in the rearview.

I burst out laughing. “This is fun, guys.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I thought that was a gendered term?”

“You two are something else,” Grace remarks. “You act like you’ve been married for thirty years.”

Heat rushes to replace my laugh lines. A quick glance back into the rearview reveals that Nick’s blushing, too.

“Not sure how that would go,” I mumble, at the same time Nick says, “Good lord, Grace.”

She bursts out laughing. “I rest my case.”

After a short trip across town, we’re sitting on a blanket on the Esplanade, eating cheese and crackers and cupcakes. “This is nice,” Grace sighs, looking out over the water.

“Dining al fresco always hits the spot,” I agree.

“Thanks, you two. You’re the best.” She smiles warmly, unwrapping a second cupcake and moaning a little when she takes a bite.

“You can thank Nick,” I return, reaching out to rub his back in gratitude. “He’s the one who ran out and got all of this stuff.”

“It was your idea,” he mumbles.

“I will say, it was one of my better ones.”

He chuckles. “Certainly better than the gas station sushi.”

“In my defense, Sam in my physics lecture said it was great.”

“Laurel.” Nick shakes his head dramatically. “It’s a cliché for a reason.”

“It’s moments like these that make me so glad I don’t eat seafood,” Grace says with a shudder.

“You did luck out,” I admit. “I was throwing up for hours.”

“Thanks for keeping her at your apartment for that,” Grace tells Nick. “I don’t do so well with vomit.”

He pauses, mid-bite, looking a little green. “Can we talk about something else?”

My laugh is so loud, a nearby group of teenagers with a Frisbee stops to stare.

“Let’s talk about the autumn formal.” Grace eyes me mischievously. “I’m thinking of asking Roger Altman.”

“Ooh, he’s cute. He was in my psych class last semester.”