Page 35 of She’s Worth the Risk

And it doesn’t stop my heart from falling when I notice she’s not here.

Of course she isn’t, I chastise myself as I take my usual seat. Why would she be? She’s young, beautiful, living her own life in the city. Not lurking in a coffee shop hoping to run into her professor.

Shame worms through my gut as I yank my jacket off in agitated, jerky movements, throwing it across the back of the chair. It’s just as well she’s not here. This is the wake-up call I needed. What the hell am I thinking, going to a coffee shop to see a student? That’s beyond bad. It’s sickening.

I shake my head, disgusted with myself. So disgusted that when my tea arrives, I don’t even touch it. Instead, I roll up my sleeves and pull out my notes for tomorrow’s lecture, forcing myself to focus. To remember I’m a professional, with a job that matters to me. To get my damn head on straight. When someone settles in at the table beside me, I don’t glance up, maintaining my strict focus for a full ten minutes.

Until a voice says, “Hi.”

My heart quickens.

I’m powerless to stop my gaze from darting to Zinnia at the next table, too weak to keep it from straying to the smile on her full, pink lips. I knew it was her from the moment she sat down, her soft floral scent drifting to my table. Even without that, there’s just something about her presence I can sense, a shift in the atmosphere when she’s near.

“Hi,” I answer, voice lower than usual. If she notices, she doesn’t show it.

Her lips twitch with amusement as she points to my cup sitting untouched on the table. “Your tea’s getting cold.”

I grimace, reaching for the lukewarm brew and downing a mouthful. Can she tell what a wreck I am? That I spent all day telling myself I wouldn’t come here, and somehow walked in anyway? That ever since I ate dinner at Marcus and Priya’s house four days ago—ever since I saw my brother so happy—I’ve felt a gnawing ache I can’t put my finger on?

She motions to her laptop and the textbook open in front of her. “I’m working on my assignment for class,” she says, sipping from her mug. “This stuff about beauty and the female form in Botticelli’s work is so interesting.” A dreamy sigh escapes her as she runs a finger over the page. “I’ve always loved The Birth of Venus.”

We share a smile, thinking the same thing: it’s even better in person.

“I wish the beauty standards from Botticelli’s time still applied today,” she says wryly. “Soft curves, rounded stomachs, full thighs. Not like the airbrushed pictures and crazy filters people use today. I mean, I know this is still idealized,” she adds quickly, “and maybe the women of the time felt pressure to look like this”—she gestures to Venus, emerging from the seashell—“but at least they look more natural, you know?”

I nod, thinking of Zinnia on her pedestal, all curves and soft edges. Does she think she’s not beautiful? Every time she’s up there, I struggle not to drink in her beauty, like a parched man lost in the desert. It’s been like that since day one.

“You’re right that even though the bodies look less than perfect to us today, they’re still idealized,” I say evenly. “The elongated neck and exaggerated proportions, for example.”

Amusement dances in her eyes, and it takes me a second to realize why. I’m doing exactly what she accused me of last time. A smile tugs at my mouth, and I lift my cup to hide it.

“I know they exaggerated the proportions on purpose,” Zinnia says thoughtfully, “but it must be hard to get them right even when you’re trying. Sometimes when I pose, I see people concentrating so hard, only to end up frustrated.”

I nod. “Proportion is challenging,” I agree, thinking of the hours I spent hunched over my sketchbook. “It takes practice.”

“Like posing,” she says with a laugh. A sweet, musical sound that pours through me like liquid sunshine.

I aim for a nonchalant shrug. “You picked it up pretty quickly.”

“Really?” Her eyes shimmer. “That doesn’t explain why you were so annoyed with me for weeks.”

I swallow, glancing away. What can I say? That it’s been years since I’ve seen a woman undress? That her perfect proportions were too much for me to handle? That, more than anything, her confidence—her ease in her own skin—was so foreign I could barely acknowledge it?

“Is it strange, standing in front of a nude model every week?”

God.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I remove my glasses, wiping them on the hem of my shirt to buy myself a moment. I do my best to school my expression into one of calm professionalism.

“You learn to view them as lines to be captured on the page,” I say carefully. “Angles, curves, negative space. It stops being a body.”

Her gaze moves over my face, the light catching on the tiny stud in her nose. “Does it, though?”

A beat passes, the air of the coffee shop becoming charged, electric. I force myself to keep my gaze steady, knowing that if I look away, I’ll reveal too much. After a moment, her lips soften into a smile, and she reaches for her coffee.

“You talk about it like someone with years of experience,” she says. “Do you draw much?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and I drop my gaze to my cup. It’s been a long time since someone asked me that. Drawing used to be part of my identity, something inseparable from me. I’d carry my sketchbook everywhere like an extra limb, sitting in the park to sketch people eating lunch, pausing at Bryant Park to capture ice skaters, stopping to scribble down a street performer. The city was full of inspiration at every turn, a buffet of moments and movement waiting to be captured by my pencil, and I was hungry for it all.