Page 43 of She’s Worth the Risk

Oh. Honey.

Everything in me softens, and without thinking, I reach for her. Thankfully, my hand lands on her elbow. I follow the line down her arm until her palm curls into mine. It’s cold and clammy and shaking, and it takes all my strength not to lift it to my lips, to ease her fear.

“I’m here, okay?” I say, voice hoarse. “I won’t leave.”

Her fingers tighten in mine. “Thank you,” she whispers, barely audible above the storm. My heart stumbles at the vulnerability in her voice, and I straighten, taking charge.

“Okay. Let’s find your bag.”

I turn cautiously toward the windows. We packed away all the easels and chairs, so I know the path is clear, but with Zinnia trembling beside me, I need to be sure. I glance her way just as lightning flashes, illuminating her wide, startled eyes. They meet mine before vanishing back into black, and instinctively, I pull her closer.

“You’re okay,” I repeat as we make our way carefully across the room, her pulse thumping against my palm. “Nearly there.” My leg hits something soft, and I fumble for a moment along the sofa, then scoop up her bag. “Here.”

Her hand loosens in mine, lingering for a beat before falling away, and I have to ignore the dash of disappointment in my chest.

God, I’m so fucked up, enjoying holding her hand when she’s so clearly upset.

Her phone light flicks on, sending a ghostly white glow across the easels against the wall, the rest of the room left in shadow.

“Fuck,” Zinnia says under her breath. “My battery is about to die.”

“Did you just curse?” I tease, like she teased me in Joe’s.

“Yes,” she replies wryly. “The moment calls for it.”

I chuckle, relieved to hear she’s feeling better. “Fair enough.”

“I should go.” She shines the light at the windows, rattling in the ferocious rain. “I’m worried about Gran.”

I hesitate. It’s not my place, and I really shouldn’t encourage Zinnia to stay here with me, alone in the dark, but worry ripples through me.

“It’s not safe out there. Not with the power out. I’m sure your grandmother will be fine.”

The light shakes in Zinnia’s hand, and I make out a furrow in her brow. “What if she’s not?”

“What would she usually be doing right now?”

She considers this. “Watching The Great British Bake Off.”

I smile. “Then she’s probably fine, staying put in her chair.”

“Maybe,” Zinnia relents. “But—”

“You won’t do her any favors by getting hurt in the dark, Zinnia.” I motion to her phone. “Especially if that dies.”

She grimaces. “You’re right.” Her fingers fly across the screen, then a moment later her phone buzzes, and her shoulders relax. “Gran’s fine.” She glances up. “But what are we going to do? I only have seven percent battery left.”

I blow out a breath, thinking. “Let’s check the kitchen. Maybe June has some candles.”

Zinnia nods, and I let her lead the way with the phone light. It doesn’t take us long to find a collection of half-used taper candles jammed into bottles, probably left over from a poetry reading or something, and I carry a few through to the studio. I set them on the wooden floor and strike a match, watching the flames cast dancing orange light over the exposed brick walls.

Zinnia exhales long and slow as we settle onto the velvet sofa. “Sorry,” she says, looking embarrassed in a way I’ve never seen. “I didn’t mean to freak out.”

I twist to face her, softening. “We’re all afraid of something.”

Her eyes move between mine. “What’s your thing?”

I huff an uncomfortable laugh, dropping my gaze. What am I going to say? That I’m too afraid to open the sketchbook she gave me? That I want to draw her more than anything, but I’m too much of a coward to try?