Page 48 of She’s Worth the Risk

We begin with early Renaissance art, where Nick recaps the ideas we covered in the Florence school, including the focus on intellectual, line-driven composition, a concept he calls disegno.

“For the Florentine painter, it was all about precision,” Nick says, motioning to an early 15th-century work influenced by Masaccio. “The word disegno translates as drawing, or design. Look at the crisp edges and geometric lines.”

Students clamor to get a better view, and I step aside. I saw this work a few weeks ago with Gran, and I turn to send Nick a smile to remind him, but he won’t meet my gaze. He hasn’t looked at me since we arrived, and my heart clenches as I think about it.

We carry on through the Florentine section, and every time Nick says something brilliant, something that makes me want to step closer, I force myself to step away. Why let myself want him so badly when nothing can happen? Even if it could, I’ll be leaving soon. Then Nick will be nothing but a distant memory, fading with time until he’s little more than a vague silhouette in my mind, a man I once crossed paths with, just like every other guy I’ve met.

But as I tell myself that, I know I won’t forget Nick.

I won’t forget the way he talks about art, so detailed and precise, so fucking intelligent, that undercurrent of passion he keeps in check. I won’t forget those brief moments in Joe’s, after life drawing, even in the park on Monday, where he let his guard down enough for me to glimpse the man he is underneath. I couldn’t forget if I tried.

“We’re heading into the Venetian room now,” he tells the class. “Look for the shift in color and atmosphere.”

We follow him around the corner, and my eyes land on a familiar figure. My breath catches in my lungs.

Oh my God, it’s her. Venus of Urbino.

And she’s stunning.

My gaze flies instinctively to Nick. Did he know she’d be here? Why didn’t he tell me? Look at me, I plead silently, and as if he hears, his gaze finally meets mine.

I grin in disbelief, mouthing, Wow, and he gives a single nod, letting his gaze fall away again.

My pulse accelerates as I gaze at Venus, unable to stop myself from stepping closer. The hum of activity around us disappears as I study her. Unlike Botticelli’s Venus, ethereal as she floats above her seashell, this Venus reclines on a bed. Everything about her feels intimate and sensual, soft and curvaceous and inviting, and when I glance back to find Nick watching me, I wonder if that’s what he sees when I pose.

If that’s what he sees when he looks at me.

Nick adjusts his glasses, looking away. “With the Venetian school,” he tells the class, “you can see the emphasis on colorito. Light and color.” He motions to Venus. “Titian built form through color and flesh tones, making Venus feel warm, embodied, and real.”

I nod, because I see it. I feel it. She almost seems alive up there, like if I reached out to touch her, I’d feel warmth, a pulse beating under my fingertips.

“The interesting thing about this portrayal of Venus is how domestic she is,” Nick continues. “Titian positioned her indoors, with cassoni—or marriage chests—in the background. That suggests this particular painting may have been a marriage painting, intended to be looked at intimately.”

I sigh, entranced as I listen to Nick talk about his favorite piece. I can feel that passion in him, closer to the surface than ever, and it’s all I can do not to cross to him, not to take his mouth and kiss him until he has no choice but to let it break free.

“She’s pretty hot,” Cole says to a guy beside me, shattering the mood.

“Totally, dude,” the guy agrees. “I’d do her.”

I glance over to find them grinning as they look at Venus, nude yet unbothered, and I shoot them a murderous look. Hot? Do her? Jesus Christ.

Thankfully, Nick hasn’t heard.

“Can anyone tell me why this particular painting might be considered controversial?” he asks the class, and a few hands shoot up. Nick’s eyes land on Cole, and he motions to him.

“Because she’s, like, totally naked,” Cole says, grinning confidently.

Even from here I can see Nick fight the urge to roll his eyes. “No, Mr. Sandford. Nudes were very common at the time.”

Glancing back at Venus, I think about how artists have portrayed women throughout history, as objects of piety or beauty. Always as objects. Passive. Intended to be looked at, not to do the looking. And as I take in her direct, inviting gaze, I realize exactly what Nick’s referring to.

“Professor Sweetman?” I ask, raising my hand.

Nick’s eyes meet mine, and as he gives a swift nod, it almost seems as though he’s holding his breath.

“Is it her gaze?”

His mouth pulls into a tiny smile, and he glances down to hide it. “That’s correct, Miss Sinclair. Unlike most nudes of the time, this one looks directly at the viewer. There’s no shame, no modesty. Her gaze acknowledges that she is being seen. More than that,” he adds, bringing his eyes back to me, as if speaking to me alone, “she invites the viewer to look.”