Page 3 of She’s Worth the Risk

NICK

The only reason some people don’t appreciate art is because they’ve never stood in front of a masterpiece. When you’re in the presence of a truly timeless piece of art—say, the Sistine ceiling, or a Rothko—you’re forever changed.

But this piece, as eye-catching as it might be, isn’t likely to change anyone’s life.

I lean closer to the gallery window, shielding my eyes against the afternoon sun streaming between the buildings in Manhattan’s West Village, to take in the large square canvas, crisscrossed with black lines and blocks of color. Very Mondrian. Or at least aspiring to be.

My gaze traces the sharp angles, and I find myself longing for a curve, a single organic line, something that flows and dips, but it’s all corners and walls. I can’t fault the brushwork, the precision, but acrylic paint always lacks the depth you find in oil. Or, ideally, early tempera.

With a sigh, I push my wire-rimmed glasses up my nose and carry on. Marcus will be waiting for me, and explaining that I’m late because I stopped to gaze into the window of a local art gallery won’t make an ounce of sense to him.

As expected, he’s already seated at an outdoor table when I arrive at the bistro on Bleecker Street. My older brother is never late. As a prominent surgeon at NYU Langone, he’s never anything but punctual and exact. Clinical, almost, in everything he does.

Which is why Marcus takes me entirely by surprise when he rises, pulling me into a hug.

I stiffen as my brother’s arms encircle me. I haven’t seen him in at least a year, probably longer, and we’ve never been the hugging type. He’s never been the hugging type.

“Nick,” he says, clapping me on the back as we part. “So good to see you.” He motions for the waiter to bring me the same beer he’s drinking, and while I don’t normally drink, I let it slide, settling in at the table, eying him warily.

“You too,” I reply, trying to get a read on him.

At forty-eight, he’s six years older than me, but we share the same features; tall, blue eyes, brown hair, though a touch more gray threads his than mine, and he wears contacts instead of glasses. We also share a disposition that leans toward stoic and serious, but today he looks… happy. Too happy. Giddy, almost.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Never been better,” he replies cryptically, eyes shimmering.

The waiter brings me a bottle of Miller High Life, already beading condensation in the heat of summer. I take a sip as I study my brother.

“I’m getting married,” Marcus announces at last, and I choke on my beer. He chuckles as I reach for a napkin, mopping the spill from my tweed jacket.

“Seriously?”

He nods, regarding me with amusement, and I take a moment to let this sink in.

Marcus is getting married. Marcus. The man who’s never once had a serious girlfriend, putting his career above all else. The man who’s always seen the world in diagnoses and repairs, never in feelings or beauty.

The man who once looked at my sketchbooks and saw nothing but a waste of time.

My breath trickles out as I struggle to make sense of this. His fiftieth isn’t far off. That probably explains it.

“Well, I guess you’re not getting any younger.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret how they sound.

“No, and neither are you,” he points out dryly. I ignore it.

“Who is she?”

“Dr. Priya Patel. She’s an anesthetist at the hospital.”

“Right,” I murmur, taking a long slug from my beer. I didn’t realize how much I’d need it for this conversation. “That makes sense.”

“Meaning?” he asks, lips twitching.

“Well, you know…” I shrug. “She’s probably a female version of you. That’s why you’re marrying her.”

Marcus laughs. “I’m marrying her because I’m in love, jackass. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

I grimace. Shit, he’s right. I am a jackass.