Page 117 of She’s Worth the Risk

“Zinnie, darling?” Gran pokes her head in, smiling. “Oh, good. You’re up.”

My gut constricts. It was late when I finally got in from the hospital last night, and Gran was in bed, but seeing her now it feels obvious. If anything is bothering me, it has to be the huge lie sitting between us.

Right?

Gran’s gaze falls to my open suitcase, her smile falling. “You’re off, then?” she asks. Her tone is light, but I feel the weight behind it.

“No.” I shove the suitcase off the end of the bed, where it lands on the floor with a thud. “I don’t want to leave.”

She studies me, her fuchsia lips pursed. “Then what’s wrong, Z?”

I look at my grandmother in the doorway, the Hermès scarf around her neck, her white hair pinned back, neat as always, and an almighty wave of guilt crashes over me. She’s nothing but generous, kind, loving. Supporting me without question. And how do I repay her? By hiding things. Sneaking around. Lying.

It’s time to come clean.

“Gran,” I begin, voice wobbling. “I have to tell you something.”

Her brow creases with concern. “What is it, my darling?”

I motion for her to sit on the bed beside me, and she ambles over, lowering herself onto the old comforter.

Taking a deep breath, I face her squarely. I can only hope she won’t think less of me for this. Or Nick, for that matter. That she’ll find it in her heart to forgive us.

That I won’t lose the one person who’s always been there for me.

“I’ve been hiding something from you. The man I’m seeing…” I swallow, nerves rippling through me. “It’s Dr. Sweetman.”

Her brow smooths, and for a second I think she doesn’t understand. That maybe she’s forgotten who he is, forgotten she signed me up for his class.

So I clarify, “My professor.”

Her eyes twinkle, and she pats my knee. “I know, Zinnie.”

I falter.

Wait. Wait.

What?

“You…” I shake my head, sure I’ve misunderstood. “You know?”

“Yes.”

“But, but…” I grasp for words, thrown. “How?”

Gran sighs, wincing. “You’re not the only one who hasn’t been entirely honest, my dear.”

“What do you mean?”

She picks at a piece of lint on the comforter. “You see, I do know Dr. Sweetman through the Met,” she says carefully, “but I know him far better through the university.”

“The university?” I echo. “How?”

She lifts her gaze to mine, smoothing a hand over her Hermès scarf. “I’m one of the major donors to the art history department.”

My eyes widen in disbelief. “What? Since when?”

“For decades.” She waves a hand, as if this is no big deal. “What else am I to do with all the money your grandfather left?”