Page 53 of She’s Worth the Risk

It felt important to give him space after the Met. That hasn’t been easy to do, given I’m in his class at NYU and we work together at the community arts center, but it felt like it was what he needed too. So I’ve kept my distance, being nothing other than cordial and polite, waiting for the right time to apologize.

Hoping he’ll accept it when I do.

“Class is fine,” I say at last, sipping my wine. “It ends next week.”

Iris turns to face me in the booth. “Have you thought any more about enrolling for fall?”

I open and close my mouth, unsure how to respond. I’m surprised to feel a gnawing sense of unease about the end of this class approaching. Usually, I’m ready to move on the moment something wraps up, if not sooner, but this time is different. Maybe it’s Nick. Maybe it’s being at Gran’s. Maybe it’s this new group of women I feel very at home with.

Or maybe it’s the art itself.

I thought summer school would be a drag, that classes would be dull and assignments would feel like a chore, but it’s been the opposite. I’ve flipped through my textbooks out of interest, reading beyond the set chapters each week, hungry for more. Gran instilled a love of art in me from a young age, so it makes sense I’m enjoying the class, but I didn’t expect to love it quite so much. To be almost sad that it’s ending.

Is it possible I could study more next semester? Not a full degree, but maybe another class? Gran said I’m welcome to stay longer, even if the thought of committing to a full semester makes me squirm in my seat.

I shake the thought off, smiling at the women. No need to decide anything now.

Before I can respond, Poppy leans closer, motioning behind my shoulder, across the bar. “Do you know that guy? He keeps looking at you.”

I twist in my seat, gaze landing on a familiar head of walnut-brown waves. Nick sits at the bar alone, nursing a whiskey, head bowed.

My heart jumps. What’s he doing here? This hardly seems like his scene. And doesn’t he live in the West Village?

“That’s the guy from Joe’s!” Daisy hisses, eyes wide. She looks at me. “Isn’t he your professor?”

I nod, sipping my wine. Nick glances over his shoulder, his gaze colliding with mine, and he stills. He looks different. Looser. His disheveled hair looks as if he’s run his hands through it in frustration. Or weeks of pent-up longing. The thought makes my pulse leap, and I force my gaze away.

Iris elbows me. “He is cute. Well done, Zinnia.”

A nervous laugh escapes me. They don’t know how I embarrassed myself last week. How he walked away. How I’ve barely said two words to him since.

“You should go talk to him,” Poppy says, grinning.

I glance back at Nick, who’s returned to his whiskey. Maybe I should. Now seems as good a time as any to apologize, away from our usual scene. And the liquid courage will help.

I drain my glass, setting it on the table. “Fine. I need another drink anyway.” The women grin at me as I rise, and I feel the need to add, “But please behave yourselves over here.”

They laugh, Poppy holding her hands up in surrender, Daisy tugging me down by the arm to be heard above the music.

“We’d never embarrass you. But we’re here if you need us.”

“Thanks.”

I smile, smoothing my hands over my outfit. It’s a black minidress with thin straps and a hem that cuts mid-thigh. Even though it’s far more than I wear in front of him at life drawing, I feel a ripple of self-consciousness as I approach the bar. I’m not used to feeling self-conscious in front of, well, anyone, and quickly order another wine before sliding onto the barstool beside Nick.

“Hi,” I say, smiling tentatively.

He glances up, those blue eyes of his meeting mine behind his glasses. Even in the dim light of the bar, I can see the flush in his cheeks, suggesting he’s had a couple drinks already.

Shit, maybe this is a bad idea.

The bartender sets my glass of wine in front of me, and I glance back at the booth. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” But Nick’s hand lands on my arm, taking me by surprise.

“No,” he says, voice more gravelly than usual.

I glance down, skin burning under his touch. His hands are large, corded with veins snaking up his forearms, disappearing into the rolled cuffs of his green button-down. The undone top button reveals a peek of salt-and-pepper chest hair, and I can’t stop staring at it. It’s weird seeing him without the tweed jacket, in a good way. Like he’s less my professor, more simply a man. A man in a bar that I could…

Stop it, Zinnia, I chastise myself. Behave.