Page 26 of She’s Worth the Risk

Instead, I reach for my notes on the lectern and wordlessly slide them on top of her books.

Her eyes are wide when they return to mine. “Are you sure? I don’t expect—”

“Have them back to me by Monday,” I say, with more grit in my voice than usual.

“Oh.” She bites her bottom lip, and it’s an effort to stop myself from noticing how plump it is. “Of course. I promise.” She contemplates me for a moment, the tiny stud in her nose winking in the lecture hall lights. My pulse ticks up as she adds, “Thank you.” Then she heads for the door, and my eyes follow for a beat longer than strictly appropriate.

I wrench my gaze away, muttering a curse under my breath. What the hell did I do that for? I’ve never given my notes to a student before. Never. Usually, if a student is late, I make a habit of calling them out in front of the class to ensure it doesn’t happen again. I certainly don’t hand out my own lesson notes to help them catch up on work they’ve missed.

I think about what Zinnia said, that she was visiting the Met with her grandmother. If she’s going to miss class, that’s a pretty good reason. That must be why I did it.

But that doesn’t explain why my neck is suddenly hot, why I feel the need to tug off my jacket. I push away from the lectern and return to my office, tossing my jacket over the back of my chair as my phone buzzes again.

God, what is it now? Marcus calling to tell me they’re having a baby?

But it’s an unfamiliar number, and I answer it with a frown. “Nicholas Sweetman.”

“Nicholas, it’s June. From the community arts center.”

“June,” I echo, bemused. “Hi.”

“You mentioned wanting to speak to me last night, and it completely slipped my mind.”

Oh.

Of course.

“You’ll have to forgive me. That’s one of the dangers at my age, I’m afraid.” She gives a light laugh. “Now, what did you want to discuss?”

I turn to the window, absently loosening my tie. Now’s my chance. Summer classes have started, and she’ll understand why I can’t keep schlepping over to Brooklyn Heights twice a week.

And yet, I can’t get the words out.

It occurs to me much too suddenly that the reason I gave Zinnia my notes wasn’t because I approved of her visiting the Met during class time.

It was because I needed to know she’d be back next week.

But when I picture how reserved she was as she approached me a few minutes ago, that knot returns to my chest. She’d behaved as she should: respectful, polite, distant. A student speaking with her professor. It’s exactly what I needed from her, so why does it unsettle me so much?

My gaze drifts over Washington Square Park as I try to process this. As it slowly dawns on me that if I quit teaching life-drawing classes for June, that’s all I’ll get from now on.

And God help me, it’s not enough.

I pull my glasses off, grinding the back of my wrist into my eye. I don’t know where that thought came from, but I don’t like it. I can’t have it.

And I need to put a stop to this right now.

But when I open my mouth to tell June I quit, that’s not what comes out.

Instead, I hear myself saying, “There’s nothing to discuss, June. Nothing at all.”

12

NICK

It’s raining when I step into Joe’s Coffee the following Tuesday evening, one of those summer showers that does little to cool the heat, making the air thick and sticky. I shake off my umbrella, depositing it in the stand by the front door, unable to stop my gaze from drifting across the store. My heart jumps when I spot Zinnia at the same table as last time, head dipped, deeply engrossed in whatever she’s reading.

I turn to the counter, hastily giving my order to the brunette barista, telling myself I’ll get it to go. I shouldn’t have come early on the off-chance Zinnia would be here. That is not appropriate professor behavior.