Page 114 of She’s Worth the Risk

I check my phone, even though I know it’s futile. She said she needed space, and I have to respect that.

But I can’t sit at home doing nothing.

I glance at the time, knowing it’s too early to go straight to work. Instead, I change into my workout clothes and head to the gym, needing to move. Needing to work the adrenaline out of my body before I speak with the department chair first thing.

I’ll give Zinnia the time she needs, but I already know what I want.

And it’s about damn time I acted like it.

I’m surprisingly calm when I knock on the department chair’s door. In her mid-fifties, Dr. Greta Fuller has been with the university for decades, and chair of the art history department for at least half that time. She’s known for her no-nonsense attitude, and I can only hope she sees this situation for what it is—two people who fell in love at the wrong time.

“Dr. Sweetman,” she says, as I step inside. Her tone indicates surprise, but she doesn’t glance up from her laptop.

I cast my gaze around her office, not unlike mine—shelves crammed with books, framed Baroque prints, a large desk stacked with papers—before finally landing back on the woman. She’s in a tailored navy blazer, a pair of readers perched on her sharp nose, her blond hair cut into a tidy, chin-length bob.

“Do you have a moment, Dr. Fuller?”

She nods, motioning to the chair opposite her desk. I lower myself into it, facing her squarely. I spent my workout figuring out the best way to phrase this, and decided that the only way forward is the truth.

“I wanted to make you aware of a situation.”

She nods, typing something as I speak, the gold tennis bracelet on her wrist hitting the keyboard with each stroke.

“Over the summer, I met a woman,” I continue, undeterred. “And we hit it off.”

Finally, Dr. Fuller stops typing to peer at me over her readers, impatience creasing her brow. “I’m not sure I follow.”

My pulse climbs as I know what I need to say next, but I keep my gaze steady on hers. “She then turned up in my summer class.”

The impatience gives way to concern. “How did you meet?”

“We work together at the Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center. I teach a life-drawing class there.”

Dr. Fuller’s eyes narrow. “How old is she, Dr. Sweetman?”

I grimace. “Twenty-five.”

Perhaps Dr. Fuller is imagining an eighteen-year-old undergrad, but I’m well aware that twenty-five is still young. That most people would view our relationship with distaste.

I hasten to continue, “I taught her for six weeks without crossing a single line.” As I speak, I hold my head high, because it’s true. I wanted Zinnia more than anything, but I didn’t lay a finger on her while she was in my summer class. At least I can say that much.

Dr. Fuller steeples her fingers on the desk in front of her, regarding me carefully. “Are you telling me you’re now involved with this young woman?”

I nod. “Yes. During the break, we fell in love.”

There’s a long beat of silence, then, “Is she still a student here?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I wanted to disclose this because…” I suck in a deep breath to steady myself. “She’s in Dr. Webber’s patronage class. The class I’ve recently taken over teaching.”

“Let me get this straight,” Dr. Fuller says, voice low. “You’re teaching a student you are involved with, Dr. Sweetman?”

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

She leans back in her chair, her expression unreadable as she scrutinizes me. My heart pounds in my throat, and I brace myself, knowing this is it. The moment I could lose my job. My career.

And as that hangs in the balance, I think of Zinnia.

Her laugh. Her boldness. Her heart.