Page 38 of She’s Worth the Risk

When I blink back to my senses, my gaze lands on the crack in the ceiling above, tracing the contours of a man’s arm. It reminds me of Nick, when I asked if he drew, and the quiet, almost sad way he said, Not anymore. I try to make sense of it as I brush my teeth and change for bed. What that meant, why he would stop drawing. I knew it wasn’t my place to ask, not today anyway, but I also know something else.

He should draw. He misses it.

He just won’t admit it to himself.

I settle into bed, deciding that tomorrow, I’ll swing by the art store Gran used to take me to as a kid.

I may not have Nick in the way I want, but I can do this.

I finish my assignment early the next day, then head out to the art store on Bleecker Street before class. It takes a while to select what I need, because I don’t actually know what kind of drawing Nick used to do. If he used charcoal or pencil, a sketchbook or loose-leaf paper.

In the end, I settle on what they use in life-drawing class: a simple spiral-bound sketchbook and a selection of pencils and charcoal. Then I ask the clerk to gift wrap them for me because I want it to be a surprise. I also want to give myself time to leave the room before Nick realizes what it is. He may think I’m crossing a line, giving him this, and I’m not sure I could bear to see that wall crash down between us again after yesterday.

But I am sure he needs this, even if he won’t admit it.

After the art store, I grab a sandwich from a tiny cafe on a quiet, tree-lined street, eating as I walk slowly to campus. It feels almost like Brooklyn Heights, with beautiful townhouses, dappled light falling between the leaves to cast interesting shapes on the ground. A carriage house catches my attention, and I pause. I know this one. This must be Cornelia Street. Gran and I used to visit it when I was little. It makes me smile as I continue to campus.

I’m a little early for class, but that’s okay. Nick has office hours directly after, so I can drop by then. I settle into the tiered seating and pull out my laptop, intending to go over the notes from our last class, when someone sits beside me.

“Zinnia, right?”

I glance up to find a young guy, around twenty-three, with sandy-blond hair, a chiseled jaw, and a confident smile. Cole, I think his name is. I’ve heard him chatting to a few other students, and I’m pretty sure I overheard him say he’s a business major, taking this class as an elective.

“Yes,” I say, twisting to face him. “You’re Cole?”

He nods, his grin widening. He’s the kind of guy I could easily find myself attracted to; comfortable in his own skin, confident, and effortlessly charming.

And yet, I feel nothing. Cole’s cute, but I can already tell everything I need to know about him. It’s all right there, on the surface.

Nick, on the other hand, has layers. Depth he tries so hard to conceal. Sure, he’s physically attractive, with those tousled walnut waves threaded with gray, that salt-and-pepper scruff on his jaw, and his soft, denim-blue eyes. The tweed jacket, coupled with those adorably nerdy glasses, gives him that effortlessly sexy professor look, which I’ve seen more than one student in our class appreciate.

But underneath that, I’m far more attracted to the man. How freaking intelligent he is. How reserved he is, the way his cheeks turn pink when he gets too self-aware. How beneath all that restraint, I can just tell there’s an ocean of intense passion waiting to be unleashed.

It makes a guy like Cole feel… boringly handsome.

“A few of us are getting together tomorrow to study for next week’s quiz,” he says easily. “You should join us.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I wasn’t planning to come to campus tomorrow since I don’t have class, but when he hands me his phone to enter my number, I do it, more out of politeness than anything else.

“Awesome. I’ll text you,” he says, pulling out his laptop.

Oh. He’s going to sit right beside me? The lecture hall isn’t even half full, and people usually sit quite spread out. But when he flashes me another grin, I smile tightly back.

It’s fine.

I turn back to my own laptop, noticing Nick at the podium, pulling up the first slide. His gaze flits to mine, darting to Cole and back to me, and I send him a little smile. He doesn’t return it, dropping his gaze to focus on his notes, but I catch the tiny uptick at the corner of his lips.

“Right, everyone, settle.” He turns to the class, smoothing a hand down his tie. “Today, we’re delving into idealized female beauty in Botticelli’s work.”

He clicks through to the next slide—The Birth of Venus, resplendent in her seashell—and glances at his notes on the podium. His brow furrows as if considering something, then he looks up.

“Someone recently pointed out how different the beauty standards were in Renaissance times compared to today.”

There’s a flutter low in my belly as I realize he’s talking about me. He’s not reading his notes; he’s speaking off the cuff, based on our conversation in Joe’s. Holy crap. I have to bite my lip to hold in my smile.

“Modern beauty is about control and restraint,” Nick says thoughtfully, pacing at the front of the lecture hall. “But in Botticelli’s time, a soft stomach, round hips and thighs, and a full bust were considered desirable. That softness was a sign of beauty.” His eyes meet mine. “Some believe it still is.”

Oh. Shit.