Page 33 of She’s Worth the Risk

Priya’s face lights. “How cool. Where?”

“The Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center, on Fruit Street.”

“I know the one,” she says, eyes warm. “What’s the class?”

I glance across to find Marcus waiting expectantly, and bite back my answer. He might seem like a different person, but he’s still the same guy who found my sketchbook and laughed.

“I’m just covering for June Crosby,” I say, dodging the question as I tuck into my food. “She needed someone last minute.”

A crease forms between Marcus’s brows, as if he knows I’m deliberately deflecting, and I push away the dart of guilt, turning the conversation back to them.

“So, Marcus says you two met in an operating theater?”

A tinkly laugh comes from Priya. “That’s right. I could only see the top half of his face, but still, it was love at first sight.”

Marcus grins. “That’s because she couldn’t see how gray I am,” he says, stroking a hand over the stubble on his chin. “By the time she realized, it was too late.”

Priya laughs, nudging him with her shoulder. “You know I love the gray.”

I touch my own jaw instinctively. I’ve got more gray now than ever, and sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize the guy staring back at me. Probably why I avoid looking at all.

Marcus gazes lovingly at his fiancée, leaning in to brush his lips to hers. They forget my presence as they kiss, and I drop my gaze. I’ve never seen my brother so smitten. He wasn’t lying when he said he was in love, and the thought makes me shift uncomfortably. After a lifetime of admiring Marcus’s discipline and composure, to see him like this is jarring. Unsettling. Something I don’t know what to do with.

I cough into my fist, reminding them they’re not alone, and they finally, reluctantly part.

“Sorry,” Priya murmurs, cheeks pink.

Marcus chuckles, shooting me an amused look as he reaches for his wine. “You know, for someone who studies art, you’re surprisingly unromantic.”

“Romanticism is post-Enlightenment,” I say, adjusting my glasses. “I deal with the Renaissance.”

My brother smirks. “Case in point.”

I frown. Before I can stop them, Zinnia’s words from Joe’s echo through my head. It’s kind of sad how we’ve gotten so good at explaining things that we don’t always let them move us anymore. As if it’s safer to analyze rather than feel.

I’ve thought about those words a lot in the past three days, more than I care to admit. They’ve played on a loop through my head as I put in extra miles on the treadmill, as if I could somehow outrun them. I still can’t believe that moment in Joe’s, the way she got me to remember how I felt in that chapel, let alone admit it. It’s the most honest conversation I’ve had in a long time, and with a student, of all people. I keep searching for a sense of regret, some lingering embarrassment, but it doesn’t come. Speaking to Zinnia cracked open a part of me I didn’t know was there, and despite myself, I want more.

But that’s the problem. I can’t want more. Not with a student.

I didn’t go to Joe’s before life-drawing class yesterday. After Tuesday, I was torn between wanting to speak to Zinnia again and knowing I need to put distance between us. On campus, it’s clear. I’m her professor, and she’s respectfully distant. In life drawing, I’m the teacher, and she’s the model. Even if it sometimes feels as though she undresses just for me, there’s still a roomful of people watching us. A buffer to stop me from saying—from doing—something stupid.

But in Joe’s, those restrictions fall away. We’re simply two people sitting at nearby tables, talking. She says the most incredible, insightful things. She makes me laugh. Hell, she teases me, and I…

Shit, I like it.

I didn’t even know that was possible.

The itch to draw her has been worse than ever since Tuesday. The more time I spend talking to her, the more those luscious curves of hers linger in my head, begging to be captured on the page.

And the harder the shame hits when I catch myself.

Not only because I don’t draw anymore, but because if I was going to draw anyone like that, it sure as hell shouldn’t be my student.

Fuck.

I shove the thoughts from my mind, focusing on Priya and Marcus. We finish dinner, and Priya brings out a berry cheesecake for dessert. As we eat, I ask them about the wedding.

“It’s in the fall,” Marcus says, looking uncomfortable as he pokes at his dessert. “Just a small ceremony on the Promenade.”