Page 24 of She’s Worth the Risk

But as Gran smiles at me across the museum shop, something inside me shifts, just a little. And even though I'd been thinking about leaving before the end of the summer, I buy a handful of art history books and head off to class.

11

NICK

The faculty lounge is always quieter during the summer semester, but there’s no escaping the low hum of conversation as I head to the kitchen. Colleagues bemoaning having to spend their summer days in stuffy lecture halls instead of at the beach, the students who are already giving them grief, all the reasons they’ll never teach another summer class again.

I tune them out as I wait for my tea to brew, then add a dash of milk. Summer isn’t my favorite time to work either, but the extra money is good, and I rarely have other plans. I like to keep busy.

I glance around the room at the worn furniture—chairs whose upholstery has seen better days, Formica tables with chipped corners—and spot a colleague from the art history department, Dr. Teagan Webber, who teaches a class on patronage in Renaissance Italy. She’s young, eager to prove herself, and very chatty. She spent the last department fundraising dinner flitting from person to person, talking about anything and everything, while I escaped to the corner and fell into conversation with one of the few people there who actually seemed to care about the art.

I decide to head for the door, but Dr. Webber notices me, waving me over. “Dr. Sweetman! Over here!”

Forcing an exhale through my nose, I head for her table. All I wanted was a cup of tea and a quiet moment before class. I should have stayed in my office.

“Dr. Webber,” I say politely. My gaze drifts over the pile of books and notes she has spread across the table, like a student studying for midterms.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Her cheeks color, and she shoves a textbook out the way, motioning for me to sit. With a resigned sigh, I drop into the seat.

“How are your classes going?” she asks, pushing a lock of strawberry-blond hair behind her ear.

I sip my tea, considering this. I’m only one class into the summer, but it feels like more. Maybe it’s the life-drawing classes on top of my regular workload.

Or maybe it’s Zinnia messing with my head.

“Fine,” I say at last. “You?”

“Great!” She beams. “I love teaching summer classes. Fewer students, so you can really get into those deep discussions, you know?”

“Mm,” I say noncommittally, because that’s never been my style. I’m not the warm, chatty type, and everyone around here knows it.

She opens her mouth to say more when my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I reach for it, pleased for the distraction, until I notice my brother’s name on the screen. I haven’t seen the guy for a year, and now we’re talking twice in two weeks? What’s his deal?

“Excuse me,” I say to Dr. Webber, rising from the table. At least the call gets me out of making awkward chit-chat, even if I’m not sure what more my brother could possibly have to say to me. I drain my tea and dump the cup in the sink before stepping into the corridor. “Marcus,” I say flatly, taking the call.

“Nick! How are you, little brother?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but this was my only free moment. What are you doing next Thursday night?”

I scratch my jaw. “I teach a class,” I say without thinking. But I won’t be teaching that class anymore, will I? Not once I finally speak to June.

“Okay then, Friday,” Marcus counters, before I can correct myself.

“I’m… free.”

“Great! You’re coming to our place for dinner. You have to meet Priya.”

I blink. “Really?”

My brother’s laugh echoes down the phone. “Yes, really. She’s going to be my wife. She wants to meet you.”

I lean against the corridor wall, processing this. It hadn’t occurred to me she’d want to meet, though I guess that makes sense. But what will we even talk about? Marcus and I caught up on work last week.

“Besides,” he adds, as if feeling the need to convince me, “you haven’t seen our place in Brooklyn Heights yet.”