Page 44 of She’s Worth the Risk

Zinnia rises from the sofa, heading to the refreshment table at the back. There’s still half a bottle of wine left, and she swipes it, along with two plastic cups, heading back to the sofa. I watch as she pours it, holding one out to me.

“You don’t have to drink,” she says, “but I could use one.”

Chuckling, I take the cup, gulping a mouthful of red wine. I need a drink after holding Zinnia’s hand. My heart rate still hasn’t returned to normal.

She chews her lip, gazing at me, as if debating whether to ask something. “Have you used the sketchbook yet?”

I wipe my palm across my thigh, shaking my head.

She’s quiet for a beat, then says, “That’s your thing, isn’t it?”

Heat creeps up my neck. I take another gulp of wine, setting the cup down to take my glasses off and clean them on my shirt. Maybe I feel less exposed in the shadows, or maybe it’s that Zinnia was just incredibly vulnerable with me, but I nod.

“I haven’t drawn since I was a teenager.”

“Oh,” she says softly, pressing a hand to her sternum. “Wow.”

I shrug, reaching for my wine again. I need this more than I realized.

“It doesn’t bother me,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re not true. What I don’t know is when they became untrue.

Or if they always were.

Zinnia studies me over her plastic cup, the stud in her nose glinting in the candlelight. “I don’t believe you.”

I lift my brows, issuing an incredulous laugh. “Is that right?”

She nods, smiling. “Yes, and I don’t even think you believe it.”

I grimace, glancing away. Has she always been this perceptive?

“Why did you stop?”

“It’s… complicated,” I mutter. A cop-out.

She motions to the dark, rain-streaked windows. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I exhale long and slow. Could I really tell her? It feels pathetic to even think it, let alone say it, but as she gazes at me patiently, a crack forms in my chest, enough to let a tiny sliver of light in.

“My brother,” I murmur, taking another steadying sip of wine. It drains my cup, and Zinnia wordlessly refills it. “He found my sketchbooks and laughed.”

“Nick,” she says, voice so soft I barely hear it above the storm.

“It’s stupid.” I square my shoulders. “I know it’s stupid. It was decades ago.”

Her brows crash together, and for the briefest second, I think she’s going to agree. But as she gives a slow, angry shake of her head, I realize I’m wrong. Her hand lands on my arm, tentatively at first, then firm and reassuring, thumb stroking my skin, and my heart catapults into my throat.

“It’s not stupid,” she says fiercely. “It’s awful.”

I stare at her hand, pulse beating wildly. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like this, let alone a woman. A woman I’m madly attracted to.

Zinnia.

“You must have felt so humiliated,” she says, eyes swimming with compassion.

Emotion rushes up inside me, unexpected and foreign, and I blink, turning away.

I wait for her to withdraw her hand, maybe joke or change the subject, but she stays right where she is, gaze steadfastly on me, thumb stroking tiny circles on my skin. The intensity of her attention, the warmth of her hand… It’s too much.