Page 20 of She’s Worth the Risk

Great. As if I don’t have enough to deal with.

I give her a tight smile. “We’ll make it work.”

“I knew you would.” She pats me on the arm and wanders off.

I take a moment to center myself, breathing in the hot, stale air before stepping into the studio. The low hum of chatter fills the room as everyone settles in at their easels, a few people fanning themselves. As I set my bag on the sofa, my eyes move to the center of the room against my will, but the pedestal is empty.

Shit.

In all my dithering about class, it hadn’t occurred to me that Zinnia might be the one not to show this evening.

But there’s a sound at the back of the room, and I turn to find her stepping through the pocket doors in her silk robe. The strangest sensation moves through me, a mix of relief and something else I can’t pinpoint. Something… light. Something nice.

I shake it off, removing my jacket to hang by the door.

Focus. Two hours, then life can get back to normal.

“Alright,” I tell the class. “I know it’s a little hot in here, but let’s do our best to get through this.” I force my gaze to Zinnia, determined to be professional for our last class. To make it clear that even here, I’m her professor. “Zinnia, please take a basic standing pose, one leg crossed in front of the other.”

She nods, hesitating before letting her robe slip to the floor. But instead of giving me that same seductive look she gave me last time, she keeps her gaze turned away as she takes the pose.

Good. She understands the rules.

I set the timer and walk the class through a few warm-up exercises, giving Zinnia clear instructions on how to pose. Each time I glance across to make sure she’s holding the pose correctly, and each time she stares straight ahead. She hasn’t once smiled, hasn’t cracked a joke. Hasn’t even checked to see if I’m looking at her. It’s exactly how a professional life-drawing model should behave.

And yet, it makes me uneasy.

We move into one of the longer poses, and I wander behind the easels, half looking at the students’ work, half puzzling over Zinnia. She’s been bubbly since day one, so why won’t she smile?

Why won’t she even look at me?

I think back to the last time we spoke after Monday’s lecture, grimacing. She’d been excited to speak to me, saying something about her grandmother taking her to the Scrovegni Chapel, and I’d dismissed her because of my own bullshit. Guilt swarms me as I replay the moment in my head.

God, my brother’s right. I am a jackass.

“Let’s take a break,” I say to the class, needing some air.

I wander to the bay windows as everyone sets their pencils down, moaning about the heat, and lift the sash to let warm air in from the street. Closing my eyes, I listen to the distant hum of New York.

I shouldn’t be thinking about why Zinnia won’t look at me. If anything, I should be glad. Last week’s classes were unbearable, with her eyes following me around the room. I thought I’d been far too aware of her body, but now I realize it’s her gaze that has my attention. She’s gone from being Titian’s Venus of Urbino, gazing boldly at the viewer, to da Vinci’s La Belle Ferronnière, gaze angled just enough to deny connection. I thought her boldness was dangerous, but her restraint hits me in a way I couldn’t have expected.

And it’s even more unsettling.

Especially when I realize that what I really want isn’t simply for her to look at me. What I want is her forgiveness.

“Er… should we get back to it?” I turn to find Gary, an older gentleman, beside me. “It’s been twenty minutes.”

I remove my glasses to wipe a hand across my eyes. Christ, I’m losing it.

“Yes,” I mutter, motioning for him to return to his seat.

Zinnia waits patiently on the pedestal, dropping her robe with little fanfare as the class settles in at their sketchbooks. She’s pulled her hair back in the heat, piling it into a bun on top of her head, a few tendrils floating loosely around her face. I think of Venus of Urbino again, the way Zinnia gazed up at me in that first class as she reclined on the pedestal, and make a decision.

“Settle into reclining contrapposto for our final pose,” I tell her.

She hesitates, and for a second I think it’s because she isn’t sure what I’m asking, but she lowers herself onto the pedestal and assumes the same reclined pose she took in our first class. This time, the shape and curve of her breasts is far more pronounced without her bra, and I tear my gaze away.

You’re her professor, I remind myself. Seventeen years older than her.