Page 40 of She’s Worth the Risk

17

NICK

Iset the sketchbook on my coffee table and stare at it.

She bought me a sketchbook. A good one, too. Plus a selection of pencils, everything from graphite to charcoal.

I should be annoyed, right? I made it clear I no longer draw. More than that, it’s not appropriate for a student to give me a gift. Not something as personal as this.

But when I unwrapped the tissue paper package in my office this afternoon, I didn’t feel annoyed. Didn’t feel like she’d crossed a line.

I felt… Fuck, I felt seen, in a way I didn’t know was possible. It’s as if she knows I’ve ached to pick up a pencil, and couldn’t stand to see it. Couldn’t stand to see me fighting with that part of myself.

That doesn’t mean I can do it.

I slump onto the sofa, dropping my head into my hands. I don’t know what I was thinking today, referencing my conversation with Zinnia in class. But ever since we last talked, I’ve felt a shift. A crack opening in the dam, to let something new flow through.

When I looked back at my notes for today’s class, they felt stale compared to the rush I got from our conversation. Zinnia said we’ve gotten so good at explaining things we don’t let ourselves feel, and while I know she spoke in general terms, I also know she was talking about me.

What she doesn’t realize is how just being around her has sparked a feeling in me I haven’t felt for years, if ever. It’s sparked unsettling feelings I’m not used to having.

Feelings I’m not supposed to have about a student.

I think of her in my office, the soft purr to her voice as she said, Your class today was…

She knew I was talking about her. She knew I was trying to say, I see you, and you’re so fucking beautiful it hurts.

And God, the way she stood in front of my desk in that dress, dark hair tumbling across her shoulders, eyes bottomless and needy…

My blood rushes south at the memory, cock thickening in my pants.

Fuck. What’s wrong with me?

Rising abruptly, I head for the bathroom, knowing there’s only one thing for it. Stripping, I turn on the shower, forcing myself under the cold spray, willing it to kill my erection. It’s not enough to dull the stubborn throbbing in my cock, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it. I will not jack off to Zinnia again. Not now that she’s my student.

But as I step from the shower, I’m still hard.

And I’m still thinking about her.

Goddammit, I need a drink.

It’s overcast as I walk onto campus on Thursday, the air thick and cool with the threat of rain. There’s supposed to be a storm this evening, but I don’t mind. The weather matches my mood.

Skipping my office, I head straight to the library. Since I don’t teach a class today, I’m planning to work on my research paper. It will be good to have a few uninterrupted hours where I can focus, and ever since Zinnia walked into my office yesterday, that’s not the place for it. Her soft floral scent lingers in the air, the image of her still fresh in my mind. After she left and I opened her gift, I stared out the window, lost in thought, unable to focus. Thinking about what I wish I could have said, how I wish I could have closed the door behind her, and…

Nope.

Shaking the thought off, I head into Bobst Library, a large, twelve-story geometric sandstone building on Washington Square. I stride across the lobby, under the open atrium lit by skylights, heading for the elevator. It’s quiet when I arrive in the reading room, save for a few small groups of students studying, but that’s good. I need the white noise, the low hum of others focused and working. Maybe that will help me focus, too.

I find a spot at one of the long wooden tables, setting down my to-go cup and turning on the green banker’s lamp beside me. Then I flip open my laptop, pull out my notes, and get to work.

For a while, it’s good. I make progress, using the observations I made from my visit to MoMA, recalling the chaos of that Jackson Pollock painting, how unsettling and disorienting it felt.

But as I find my flow, a warm laugh floats across the reading room, and I freeze.

Glancing up, my gaze lands on a group several tables away. A couple of guys, one woman, and… Zinnia.

I didn’t know she had a class today. It occurs to me suddenly that I don’t know what other classes she takes, or even what her major is. I’d assumed she’d be off-campus, but there she is, her back turned, those dark tresses pulled into a high bun on her head, wearing a tank top the color of persimmon.