Page 71 of Any Port in a Storm

four years earlier

The moment the door clicks open, Nick and I fall silent. The hotel room looks pretty standard—a bathroom, a tiny sofa, and a workstation.

And, at the center of the space, complete with enough bolster pillows for a small army, sits only one bed.

“I promise, I asked for a room with two queens,” I say after a minute.

Nick slides his free hand onto my shoulder. “If you wanted to cuddle, Laurel, you could’ve just asked.”

“As always, you’re quite the comedian.” I hesitate in the doorway. “Want me to go back down and ask for a different room?”

His eyes flick from me to the bed and back again. “Nah,” he says, rolling off the suggestion with a hitch of his shoulders. “I can take the couch.”

The couch is upholstered in a scratchy gray material that looks like it might cause a rash. It also prominently features several stains of dubious origins.

“You absolutely cannot.”

He unwraps the straps of my duffel from his hand and sets it down on the desk. “It’ll be fine.”

“Or,” I say, crossing the room to him, “maybe we can just be adults about this?”

“Adults would definitely share the bed.” His tone drips with nuance.

Something twists beneath my belly button. “Yeah. Well, that’s not what I meant. We can just be adults who share a mattress. No…extracurriculars.”

He snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

I unzip my duffel and dig around for a hairbrush. The humidity isn’t doing me any favors, and I’d like to get cleaned up before we head to the museum. “We can call it whatever you want,” I say coyly.

“Hmm,” he teases. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I playfully hit his arm. “Let’s get ready and go to the museum, okay? They close at five.”

Nick checks his watch. “We’d better head out.” He clocks the hairbrush in my hand. “What are you doing?”

“Just freshening up.”

He appears in the mirror behind me. “Why? You already look great.”

I see the pink tinge my cheeks in real time. “Is this what you’re like with women?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Laurel, but you are a woman.”

“No, I meant…women. Like women you date.”

“This is how I am with you,” he says quietly.

We’re both making eye contact and not, as I peer into the multitudes of his irises by way of the mirror.

I look down and step outside the mirror’s sphere of influence. “Well,” I murmur. “Any woman would be lucky to have you.”

Nick buries a violent flush, brushing the hair off his forehead and rummaging through his bag. He grabs his sunglasses, then murmurs, “We should probably head out.”

The Philadelphia Institute of Literature is a museum dedicated to all things books. They have a rare book collection, several rotating exhibits focused on specific authors, a local writers display, and even a reading room. Neither Nick nor I have ever been here, but this is the spot I’m most excited to visit on our trip. For a historian and an English student, there really couldn’t be a better place.

“TripAdvisor says they have quite the Oscar Wilde exhibit,” I tell Nick as we walk the six blocks from our hotel to the Institute. I toss him a teasing grin. “I know he’s your favorite.”

“Everything the man touched is gold,” he agrees.