Page 36 of She’s Worth the Risk

I spent hours honing my skills, laser-focused on details others glossed over. Perfecting the gentle curve of a thumb, the hollow of a throat, the bend in a wrist. I thought of myself as a modern-day da Vinci, determined to master my craft. Nothing mattered more.

But that was the problem. Pouring myself into something so impractical turned out to be a waste of time.

I still remember the moment Marcus found my sketchbook. The expression on his face as he leafed through it without my permission. I’d stood frozen in the doorway to my room, feeling more violated than I knew was possible.

Despite the six-year age difference between us, Marcus and I were close growing up. He taught me how to fish, how to do my times tables, about the birds and the bees. I’d always looked up to him, wanted to be just like him, even though we were fundamentally different—him serious and driven, me sensitive and artsy.

When he left for college I was twelve, and I felt lost for a long time. I turned to my sketchbook for comfort and found something I didn’t know I’d needed. Something that ignited a passion in me. It wasn’t until Marcus was gone that I’d realized just how much time I’d spent worrying about what he thought. With that weight lifted, I could do what I wanted. What lit me up.

What I hadn’t counted on was him mocking that and making me feel so small, I wished I’d never started at all.

“What’s this?” Marcus had asked, holding up my sketchbook in amusement. He’d popped home to see Mom and Dad between residency shifts, tired from long hours, but not too tired to enter my room without asking and rifle through my things.

“That’s private,” I said, attempting to yank it from his hand, but he held it out of reach.

“You’re, like, obsessed with hands,” he choked out between fits of laughter.

I swiped at the sketchbook again, face on fire. I’d been working on a series of different hand gestures, trying to map the lines and angles, get the proportions just right.

“Who do you think you are, da Vinci?” He doubled over with laughter, and I finally tugged my sketchbook free from his grasp.

But the damage had already been done.

I adjusted my glasses, wonky from the scuffle, burning with humiliation from the inside out. Stuffing my sketchbook under the mattress, I vowed never to pick it up again. Not to waste my time on something that would only lead to pain.

Not to bare my heart so willingly again.

For a while I considered training in medicine like my brother, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. I knew a great deal about art from studying it for hours on end and found a way to turn those skills into a career. One that emphasized intellect and reason over feeling. One that my brother would at least understand, if not respect.

One that didn’t end with me exposed and humiliated.

I shove the memories away and gaze at Zinnia’s expectant face, swallowing against the emotion in my throat. “Not anymore.”

Her eyes move between mine, soft and searching, as if she knows there’s more to the story. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to find the right words. Eventually, she sighs, motioning to her phone.

“We should probably get going. Class starts soon.”

What?

I glance at my watch, realizing she’s right. I’m so wrapped up in talking to her, I’ve forgotten where I am. Who I am.

“Shit,” I mutter, gathering my papers.

She gasps. “Did you just curse?”

“Guilty,” I say, cringing. I’d never normally curse in front of a student, but then there are several things I’d never normally do that I’ve already done with Zinnia.

“Professor Sweetman,” she says teasingly, but the words land uncomfortably in my chest. I was the one who told her to use my title, but it doesn’t feel right. Not here.

“You don’t have to call me that when we’re not on campus,” I hear myself say.

A dangerous move, I know, but I can’t stop myself. Not when I like the way Nick sounds on her tongue.

Not when I don’t want to be reminded I’m her professor.

Our gazes lock, lingering a moment longer than necessary. Long enough to make my pulse scatter.

“Okay, Nick.” She presses a hand to her chest in mock offense. “I can’t believe you just cursed.”