Page 30 of She’s Worth the Risk

I sip my wine as I ponder this, thinking of Violet, with her pregnant belly, and the complaint that her husband still couldn’t keep his hands off her. The women are close to my age, maybe a couple years older, but that feels young to be married, let alone having kids. Young to be so… tied down.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Zinnia?” Poppy asks, cheeks already rosy from the wine.

I shake my head. I don’t really do “boyfriends.” Sooner or later I get that itch to move on, so it’s easier not to get tangled up in labels and promises you can’t keep.

Daisy’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “You should ask out that hot older guy you’ve been chatting to at Joe’s.”

I snort a laugh. “He’s my art history professor.”

Her brows spring up. “Your professor?”

“I didn’t know at first,” I say, warmth creeping up my neck. “We met because he teaches life drawing at the community arts center. I only realized afterward that he’s a professor at NYU.”

She grins. “I can totally see that. The glasses, the elbow patches…”

“Hot,” Iris interjects, pushing a lock of long caramel-colored hair over one shoulder. “He sounds like a sexy nerd.”

“He is,” I admit. That’s exactly what Nick is: a sexy nerd. The glasses, the tweed jacket, sure, but it’s more than that. He’s smart, so fucking smart, a fact confirmed by reading his notes last week. The typed pages he handed me after class, with hand-written additions in the margins in inky-blue scrawl. It felt intimate to read his handwriting, like I was peeking into his journal. Like I was touching a part of him as my finger stroked the ink.

And as I copied from his scribbled words, a little ache stirred inside me. I could imagine him at his desk, or maybe at home, a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table, his hair rumpled as he ran a hand through it, pondering Masaccio. He’s so brilliant, so insightful; those notes went far deeper than anything in the books I picked up from the Met, and that only makes him more attractive. Somehow, the passion lacking in his lectures feels palpable in his handwriting, and I itch to get closer to that.

Maybe that’s why I said what I did at Joe’s yesterday. My face heats as I think of the way I mimicked his words, how his jaw fell open in shock. Shit, I thought he was going to snap at me again, like he did after his first lecture, but the opposite happened.

He laughed.

Honestly, I didn’t even know if he knew how. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Nick, it’s that he takes things very seriously, especially his work. The minute those words left my mouth and his expression morphed with disbelief, I was certain he’d put me in my place. So hearing the warm rumble of his laughter was like seeing the clouds part after rain. Beautiful. A relief.

And when he dryly joked that I should tell him how I really felt, well… it was a struggle not to be honest. Not to tell him that I think he’s handsome and intelligent and intense in a way that’s weirdly sexy. That all I’ve thought about since we met is how to crack open that composed exterior of his.

I never expected him to actually tell me what he felt in that chapel. Not in any real, meaningful way. But he became so quiet when I asked, so thoughtful, and his words truly took me by surprise. Not only because of how honest they were, but because they captured how I felt in that chapel. He understands art as a professor, yes, but he also feels it as a man.

And God, seeing that side to him only makes me want him more.

But I’m not stupid. He’s my professor. Even if he weren’t so tightly wound—so emotionally closed off—he’d never make a move on me, not with his career on the line, and I wouldn’t want him to. No matter how hot it would be to see him let go, I’d never let him jeopardize his career for me. He’s too good at what he does.

“I didn’t know you studied art history,” Poppy says, cutting into my thoughts.

“Oh.” I shrug. “I’m not, like, doing a degree or anything. Just a summer class.”

“What do you do when you’re not studying?” Poppy asks.

I hate this question. Everyone always asks it, as if your career path says something about who you are. As if confining yourself to one particular job or skill-set or field makes you superior, when more likely you’re just clinging to something out of fear.

“I don’t do anything specific. Mostly temp jobs.”

“I used to do a lot of temp work,” Iris says. “Then I found my passion for architecture.”

I lift a shoulder. “Some people just don’t have a passion.”

“I felt that way before I got into photography,” Daisy murmurs. “What drew you to art history?”

“It was Gran’s idea, but…” I trail off, thinking again of yesterday’s conversation with Nick. “I kind of love it. We’ve been looking at religious art from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and even though I’m not religious they feel sacred, you know? It’s amazing how something painted hundreds of years ago can still take your breath away today.”

Iris gives me a wry smile. “And you say you’re not passionate.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I laugh awkwardly. “It’s not the same thing,” I say, but her smile doesn’t change.

“Will you continue in the fall?”