Page 75 of She’s Worth the Risk

And then there’s Gran. I text her frequently, and pop home every few days to make sure she’s okay—and, let’s be honest, grab clean underwear—and every time I do, guilt engulfs me. She knows I’ve been seeing someone, and has even encouraged it, telling me how delighted she is and that it’s a good reason to stay in the city.

But I can’t help but think she wouldn’t feel that way if she knew who it was. I’ve never lied to Gran before, and my stomach roils every time I think about it. Especially when I know it would only add more stress and worry to whatever else she’s dealing with.

Because she’s definitely dealing with something.

Since arriving, I’ve watched Gran carefully, and as much as it pains me to admit it, Poppy’s right. Something is off. The tulips, the milk, forgetting Poppy and her friends had visited. On their own they aren’t a big deal, but when I put them together, when I combine them with what Poppy told me, when I force myself to acknowledge the appointments Gran won’t let me attend, what her friend at the Met said about her being away too long, and the way she seems more insistent than ever that I stick around…

I know something is off, and I can’t keep hiding from it. If anything, I should sit Gran down and talk to her, even if I know she won’t like it.

It’s not only Gran who’s got me worried; June hasn’t recovered from her cold, and on Tuesday evening when I arrived to find her looking like she was at death’s door, I told her I’d lock up again and sent her home. I don’t know what she did for Wednesday night’s class—I think it’s printmaking on Wednesdays—but Nick and I are opening and locking up tonight. I’m glad we’re able to keep life drawing going, but it’s unsettling that June is still unwell.

On Thursday night, we ride the subway from Nick’s apartment to Brooklyn Heights in separate subway cars. Nick is very careful about anyone from NYU seeing us together, and I understand, but it only reinforces what I’m already thinking. That if I did decide to stay in the city for a while, it would be a choice between classes or Nick.

A choice I’m not sure I could make.

He’s a little more relaxed when we exit the subway at Clark Street, and while he doesn’t hold my hand or kiss me, we walk side by side. It’s Nick’s suggestion to stop in for a to-go coffee at Joe’s, a suggestion he appears to regret instantly when, the minute we’ve placed our order, a guy waves to him from a table across the room.

“Shit.” Nick glances at me in panic as the guy rises to cross to us. He’s familiar—I recognize him from the bar that night Nick was out—and as he approaches, I notice he looks a lot like Nick.

“Want me to go?” I ask quietly, one eye on the door, but Nick shakes his head just as the other man pulls him into a hug.

“Nick!” he says, clapping him heartily on the back. “What are you doing in my neighborhood?”

“I teach a class nearby,” Nick says. “Remember?”

“Ah, yes.” The guy looks at me with a pair of oddly familiar blue eyes. “And you are…”

“Zinnia.” I smile, deciding the easiest course of action here is to be honest. Well, mostly honest. “I’m the model for the life-drawing class.”

Nick bristles.

“Life drawing?” the guy asks, regarding Nick with interest. “I didn’t know you did that stuff anymore.” He’s being perfectly pleasant, but his words make something protective ripple through me. I keep my smile in place, but it’s an effort not to reach for Nick’s hand.

“Nick is a brilliant artist,” I say defensively.

I feel the tension ease from him beside me. He adjusts his glasses, then surprises me by taking my hand. The guy’s gaze falls to it, his brows rising.

“Zinnia,” Nick says calmly, “this is my brother, Marcus.”

Oh.

My smile falters. This is Nick’s brother? The brother who found his private sketchbooks, rifled through them, then laughed so hard Nick quit drawing altogether? He’s the reason Nick is so tightly wound?

I bite my tongue as all the things I want to say to him clamor up my throat at once. It’s not my place, and I’m sure Nick wouldn’t want me to.

But goddamn, I want to put him in his place.

Marcus’s gaze lingers on our joined hands, and he smirks. “What’s going on here?”

“We’ve been seeing each other,” Nick says carefully. Then adds, almost to himself, “Just for the summer.”

Marcus’s brows hit the roof. I open my mouth to say… I don’t even know what, when our coffee order is called.

Probably just as well.

“We need to get to class,” Nick mutters.

I turn to find Daisy holding out our drinks with a grin. She hands them over, gaze moving curiously between me, Nick, and Marcus, and I mouth, “Tell you later,” before Nick and I slip out the door.