Page 11 of She’s Worth the Risk

She’s intelligent. Interesting. Funny.

And that’s worse. That’s harder to ignore.

June enters the studio with the tray of wine, and as I drag the pedestal into place, I glance at the table. Despite knowing better, I grab a plastic cup off the tray when June leaves and drink deeply, needing to settle that feeling in my stomach. The one that’s fizzing with anticipation for Zinnia’s arrival.

This isn’t me. I don’t know this guy, don’t recognize his behavior. I have nothing against women—I find the female body beautiful, in all its forms—but I don’t make a habit of… well, whatever this is. Thinking thoughts I shouldn’t. Feeling things I shouldn’t.

I toss the empty cup into the trash can under the table, taking a deep, calming breath. Surprisingly, I’m steadier, and as I turn to greet the first students for class, I realize I’m overreacting, making a big deal out of nothing. I’ve never taught a life-drawing class, that’s all. It’s challenging. It has nothing to do with Zinnia.

The problem was working without a plan. Letting an inexperienced model choose her own pose. But if I keep a tight grip on the class direction, everything will be fine. I just have to remain in control. I’ll focus on the students’ work and forget the model is even there.

In fact, I tell myself, turning away from the door, I won’t even look at Zinnia.

6

ZINNIA

Nick’s eyes meet mine the minute I walk through the door. I offer him a smile, wanting him to know I’m not bothered by the way he fled from Joe’s, but he frowns, tearing his gaze away. For the first time, I read it not as him irritated with me, but as him irritated with himself.

“Right,” he says brusquely to the room. “Settle in.”

June appears at my side, holding a silk robe. “Here you are, dear.” She motions to a set of pocket doors at the back of the studio. “Feel free to go through there to undress.”

“Thanks, June.” I take the robe, head through the doors, and step behind a folding screen, where I remove my dress. My hands hover above the clasp of my bra for a moment as I recall Nick’s words from our first class: Traditional figure study is nude. Then I unclip my bra, decide to leave my panties on, and slide on the silk robe. The fabric is divine on my heated skin, and I take a second to enjoy the softness before padding back into the studio.

Nick has his back to me as I climb onto the pedestal, enrobed. When he doesn’t turn, I say, “Ready when you are.”

“Great.” He looks around the room, hands on his hips. “We’ll start with warm-ups again. Five minutes each pose. Zinnia,” he says, attention focused on the class, “take the contrapposto stance and angle yourself toward the window.”

“Sure.” I smile at his use of the word contrapposto after our conversation in Joe’s, but he still won’t look at me. With a sigh, I drop the robe, letting it pool at my feet, and take the pose. He starts the timer on his phone, then moves to the back of the studio, jamming his hands in his pockets as he stares at something on the wall. When the timer sounds, he jumps, as if he’d forgotten it was on.

“Time,” he says to the class. “Right arm behind your head.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me, considering he’s looking anywhere but, and I quickly move into the next position. Nick paces restlessly at the back of the room, gaze moving between easels, and I can’t tell if he’s figured it out yet. That I’m more exposed than last time. He still won’t look up, even as the timer goes off and he instructs me to move into the last warm-up position, and I grow impatient.

I think of the blush in his cheeks, the way his composure slipped when he tried to explain Venus of Urbino, or rather, tried not to explain. Not to reveal why he’s so drawn to that beautiful painting.

I want him to look at me like that.

“Alright,” he says at last, taking his glasses off and wiping them on the sleeve of his shirt. “We’re going to move on to one of the longer poses.” He slides his glasses back up his nose and turns my way, almost as if by accident. “If you could… just…” His words falter, as if his brain loses the thread, as he finally, finally looks at me.

Satisfaction warms me from head to toe. I smile as if I have no clue why he’s stumbling over his words. “Yes?”

He looks away sharply, the way someone yanks their hand away when they’ve burned it on a flame. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he takes a beat, then says in a voice that’s far too careful, “Twist your torso toward the front of the room and hold it.”

I watch him, waiting for him to look again, to say something more, but he doesn’t. “Like this?” I ask, half because I’m unsure of the pose, and half because I want him to turn back.

He swallows, forcing his gaze to me, expression neutral, as if it’s not affecting him in the slightest. “Yes, like that.” He’s as calm and composed as ever, but I hear it. The low, raspy edge to his voice that gives him away.

He sees me.

He likes it.

And he doesn’t want to.

I can’t stop my gaze from following him as he moves stiffly around the studio, as if holding himself tightly enough will keep his reaction in check. The low hum of satisfaction deep within me ebbs away as he focuses diligently on the class’s work, pausing to guide a few where they’re faltering, never once glancing my way again.

And all I can think is, Look at me. Look at me and come undone.