Page 14 of She’s Worth the Risk

I brace a hand against the wall again, pulse quickening as I recall Zinnia in the studio, brazenly baring herself. Because it felt brazen. She did it on purpose, didn’t she? To taunt me. To tempt me. To make me crack.

And I was stupid enough to touch her, for God’s sake.

It’s funny how we can rationalize irrational things in the moment. I knew better than to go anywhere near her, but some dangerous, reckless part of me took hold. That’s the only explanation for how I let myself get closer. Let my fingers brush her skin, just enough to feel the heat of her. Let myself inhale her scent, a combination of something floral and soft and warm.

Goddammit.

My jaw hardens as I pump my fist harder, needing this to be over. There’s no denying she’s beautiful, but I shouldn’t have looked. I know better than to lose control. And even if that weren’t true, she’s a good decade younger than me. The model for our life-drawing class. And far too tempting.

But that doesn’t stop me from remembering the way goosebumps rushed over her skin when I touched her. The way her tongue slid out to moisten her full pink lips, her eyes searing into mine.

It’s enough to get me there, and I hang my head as my release rushes through me, spilling onto the tiles. I rinse off, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal, a strange cocktail of emotions swirling through me. My face is hot as I reach for my towel, uncomfortable and ashamed.

Jesus Christ, why the hell did I do that? I don’t feel a lick of satisfaction. If anything, I feel worse, and I still haven’t gotten any work done. This is why I don’t indulge desire. It makes me sloppy.

Padding into my room, I pull on my sweatpants and slide on my glasses. I have to get my life back on track, and I know what I need to do. I need to quit the life-drawing classes.

And I need to stay the fuck away from Zinnia.

There’s a buzz in the air when I walk onto campus the following day. Even though it’s noticeably quieter during the summer, there’s still that hum of anticipation, that first-day-of-class feeling. Paradoxically, after last night’s moment of weakness, I feel stronger. Now that I have a plan, I’m overcome by an odd sense of relief.

But I can’t leave June high and dry, no matter how desperate I am. As I enter the Silver Center building and head toward my office on the third floor, I resolve to teach one more class tomorrow evening, then pull June aside and tell her that I have too many commitments at the university. I’m sure she’ll understand.

And I can go back to life the way it was before Zinnia.

I’m reinvigorated, using the morning to go over the syllabus one last time before class after lunch. By the time I walk into the small lecture hall, I’m back in control. It’s almost laughable that I let myself get so worked up over a woman. That’s never happened before, and now I can see it for what it was. Nothing more than a moment of temporary insanity.

I look around the lecture hall, exhaling slowly as it fills with students. This is my world. Academia. The realm of intellect, reason, logic. Not passion. Not emotion.

Not jacking off in the shower thinking of a woman I barely know.

“Alright, find a seat, everyone,” I say, plugging in my laptop and switching on the projector. I fasten the front button on my tweed jacket and smooth a hand down my tie as I wait for the rustling of bags, laptops, and textbooks to settle. “Welcome to Renaissance Art History: Italy & Europe. I’m Professor Sweetman.”

Turning to the screen, I motion to the first slide. “Over the next six weeks, we’ll cover everything from Giotto to Titian. There’s a lot to stay on top of, so be sure to attend all lectures and take thorough notes.”

A hand shoots up in the tiered seating. “Professor Sweetman?”

“Yes?” I ask, already sensing what the question will be.

“Will you put your lectures online in case we can’t make class?”

I heave out a breath. It’s the same every time, students wanting to consume class material passively, as if I can condense the world’s greatest works of art down to a handful of TikToks they can scroll through while watching Netflix. I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying what I really want to say: Show up or don’t bother.

“No,” I say crisply. “Art needs to be experienced. If you want to succeed in this class, you need to be here.”

The student huffs in outrage. “But…” he begins to protest, and I shake my head.

“No buts.” It’s important to set the tone for classes early, or things will unravel later. “I only want you in here if you’re serious,” I tell him, motioning to the glowing green exit sign to my left. “Otherwise, there’s the door.” He stares at me in disbelief, and I turn back to the screen when a chuckle draws my attention.

Great, another joker.

Honestly, these kids have picked the wrong day to test me. I’m finally back on steady ground after the last few days, and I won’t let anyone mess with that.

I push my glasses up my nose and turn impatiently, scanning the class. My gaze lands on dark bangs and a far too familiar grin.

Zinnia.

I freeze. What is she doing here?