Page 47 of She’s Worth the Risk

“I’m not sure.” She laughs. “I tend to move around. I was in Phoenix for a while, then Austin, now I’m at Gran’s… I haven’t figured out my next move.”

I chew slowly, processing this. That’s what I thought. Why she’s leaving New York. Why she’s not taking more than one class at NYU. Hell, why she volunteered to model rather than draw. This woman is so good at feeling, at being in her skin, but maybe that’s all she does—live in the moment rather than planning ahead, rather than committing to something.

She doesn’t know how.

Part of me aches at this, and not only for her. The same part that wonders what it would take to get her to stay.

“Tell me about your grandmother,” I say, and a soft smile slides onto her lips.

“She’s the best. I spent all my summers here in the city with her. It’s amazing to be back.” She lets out a quiet laugh. “Her house is the closest I’ve ever had to a real home.” Something moves across her expression then, uncertainty maybe, or sadness, but it falls away. “What about you?” she asks, biting into her wrap. “Have you lived in the city long?”

“I’ve lived in New York all my life,” I say, chuckling. We couldn’t be more different. Her world is big, expansive. Mine barely goes beyond the West Village. “Been in the same apartment for fifteen years.”

“Really?” Her brows rise. “Nearby?”

I nod, finishing my sandwich. “Yeah, just a couple blocks over on Cornelia.”

“I know Cornelia.” She smiles, and the warmth of it could rival the sun. “There’s a great cafe down there, and the cutest carriage house.”

I grin, speaking before thinking. “That's my neighbor’s place.”

She arches a playful brow. “The cafe or the carriage house?”

God, I want to tell her. I want to give her my address and ask her to meet me there after class, wearing nothing but her life-drawing robe.

But the rational part of my brain kicks in, and I ball up my sandwich wrapper, rising from the bench. “I should get ready for class.”

Her face falls. “Of course. See you there.”

I force my feet to walk away, even though all I want to do is stay. Talk to her about anything and everything. Life, art, the city.

And as I make my way across the park, fighting the urge at every step to turn back, I know it doesn’t matter what I tell myself.

I can’t turn these feelings off.

20

ZINNIA

I’m delighted when Nick announces at the end of Monday’s class that we’re doing a field trip to the Met for the Titian exhibit. We meet on Wednesday on the steps of the museum, buzzing with anticipation, the city humming around us. Cole sidles up to me with a wide grin, which I politely return. He’s perfectly nice, but I should never have gone to that study group with him. He spent the entire time hitting on me, and has made it pretty clear what he wants.

And I could not be less interested.

Not after the moment Nick and I shared during the blackout. The way he took my hand as I spiraled, speaking to me in that gentle, calming voice. If it hadn’t been for him, solid and steady beside me, I would have had a full-blown panic attack.

But I didn’t. I felt the warmth of his palm in mine, and everything felt right with the world. Then I wasn’t breathless from panic, not when all I could think about was his hand touching me, wondering what he’d do if I placed it on my breast, slid it over my stomach, between my thighs. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.

Maybe that’s why he nearly kissed me before the lights came back on.

I sigh, thinking again about that night. My heart aches every time I remember what he told me about his brother laughing at his drawings. It must have devastated him. I bet they were amazing, too. Nick has such an eye for composition and proportion; his drawings were probably better than da Vinci’s. I wish I could see them.

And I wish I could get him to draw again.

I shake the thought off as Nick arrives, greeting us on the steps. He’s in his usual tweed jacket and tie, hair ruffled and glasses glinting in the afternoon sun, looking so damn edible I suddenly feel famished.

Stop, I tell myself, as we enter the cavernous foyer of the museum. Focus on the art.

Nick doesn’t look my way as he addresses the group, saying something about how lucky we are to view Titian’s best work. Then we follow him up the grand staircase, a long, wide set of marble stairs flanked by Corinthian columns that lead through an arch onto the second floor. Our footsteps echo as we walk, along with excited chatter among the students. Cole strides ahead, as if he needs to be first up the steps, and I can’t say I’m not relieved.