Page 39 of She’s Worth the Risk

My pulse surges as he holds my gaze, eyes burning. He means me. He’s talking about me. He’s telling me I’m beautiful, in the only way he can.

I suck in a shaky breath as the realization hits, aching to cross the lecture hall and press my mouth to his.

Nick’s gaze slides away. “The real question,” he continues calmly, as if he hasn’t just made every atom in my body hum with want, “is why a culture so devoted to the divine became fascinated with the human form.”

He turns to the next slide, bringing up Primavera. A quick glance at his notes, and he’s off again, more animated than I’ve ever seen him, removing his jacket at one point, gesturing as he speaks. It reminds me of life-drawing class last night, and I can’t take my eyes off him, silently begging him to look my way again. It’s not until class wraps up that I realize I haven’t taken any notes.

Crap.

“See you at study group tomorrow?” Cole asks as he rises.

“Definitely.” I’m going to need it after spacing out in that class, especially with the quiz next week.

He grins. “Great, I’ll text you the details.”

I pack up my laptop and textbook, desperate to speak to Nick, but I know better than to approach him in the lecture hall. I probably shouldn’t approach him at all, if I’m honest with myself, not with how I feel right now, but I need to give him my assignment.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s a thin excuse, considering most people submit them digitally. The real reason has more to do with giving him the sketchbook.

It takes me a few minutes to find his office along the hall, but that gives me time to simmer down. Time to collect myself after Nick looked at me like that. After he told me I’m beautiful, in front of everyone.

Not that anyone else realized, of course. They thought it was all part of the lecture.

But I know. I’ve known since that first life-drawing class, where he could barely look at me, as if he felt too much when he did.

And it makes me want him more than anything.

His office door is closed when I arrive. I lift my hand to knock when the sound of a woman’s laugh drifts through the door. Jealousy slices clean through me.

Shit, was I wrong? Is he interested in someone else?

Or worse, does he have a girlfriend?

But his office door swings open, and one of my classmates steps out. Stef, I think her name is. She smiles as she passes, and I lift my lips in return, relieved to see that Nick isn’t looking at her.

He’s looking at me, hovering in the doorway. My heart trips over itself, and I take a deep breath.

“Do you have a moment, Professor Sweetman?”

He adjusts his glasses carefully, nodding. “Yes, Miss Sinclair.” His gaze stays firmly fixed on my face, despite the cute outfit I’m wearing. A dress that highlights my cleavage and swishes around my thighs. He motions for me to enter his office, stacking papers efficiently on his desk, his tone neutral as he adds, “What can I help you with?”

“I just wanted to say, your class today was…” My voice comes out huskier than intended, and his gaze meets mine, heavy and loaded. Like he’s begging me not to finish that sentence.

The air in his office thickens, swirling with everything I want to say. With words I think he might like to say, too. It smells like him in here, that clean, masculine scent from his cologne, and the faintest hint of leather. I imagine pushing his office door closed, perching on the edge of his desk, and grabbing him by the tie to drag his lips to mine. Heat flashes through me at the thought, and I swallow.

“Did you have a question, Miss Sinclair?” He’s aiming for cool professionalism, but the rough edge to his voice gives him away. In the past, his abrupt question might have stung, but I recognize it for what it is. A man who feels out of control and hates it.

And it makes me want to pull back.

It doesn’t matter if we both feel this. I have too much respect for this man to taunt him. To make him do something he’d regret.

“No,” I say, lowering my gaze as I place my work on his desk. “Here’s my assignment.” Then I reach into my bag, pulling out the wrapped sketchbook. “And… I wanted to give you this.”

His brow pinches in confusion, eyes moving between mine and the gift in my outstretched hand. “I don’t…” he begins, and I step closer, setting it on his desk before he can refuse.

“You’ve helped me remember why I love art,” I say gently. “I thought maybe I could return the favor.” Before he can say anything more, I turn on my heel.

My heart races as I step from his office.