Page 8 of She’s Worth the Risk

I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck. June never mentioned this would be an ongoing commitment. I have other work that needs my attention.

But my gaze swings to Zinnia, her expression warm and expectant.

“Yes.”

4

ZINNIA

It’s amazing that in all the summers I spent visiting Gran in Brooklyn, I’ve never once walked the few blocks to Joe’s Coffee.

Gran has an appointment late Thursday afternoon, which she insists on going to alone. It makes me wonder why I’m here if I can’t accompany her to a damn appointment, but I remind myself it’s just for the summer.

Instead, I take myself out for coffee before life-drawing class. The shop is busy when I enter, and I glance around as I wait in line. Exposed brick walls and pressed tin on the ceiling give the place a historical feel, while the double bay windows let in lots of natural light from the street. It has a friendly vibe, and if the coffee is good, I can see myself returning.

At the counter, I order a mocha, along with a brownie from the glass cabinet, then take the brownie to one of the few free tables in the window, pulling out Gran’s old Italy guidebook. I found it on the rolltop desk this morning, and while it’s a little outdated, nostalgia made me pick it up. After Tuesday’s life-drawing class, I’ve thought about our trip, about art. I haven’t told Gran I’m using the class to model instead of draw, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll disappoint her when I do.

“Thanks,” I say, as the barista sets my coffee in front of me. Her hair is long and dark like mine, her pretty button nose scattered with freckles. I notice her name tag says Daisy, and smile.

“I’m named after a flower too,” I tell her as she turns to go, and she stops, glancing back at me with interest.

“Really?”

I nod, grinning. “Zinnia. It’s my grandmother’s favorite flower.”

A strange expression comes over Daisy’s face. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Are you new to the neighborhood?”

“I’m staying with Gran, along the street.”

Now I have Daisy’s full attention. “Is your grandmother Sylvia Sinclair?”

“Yes,” I say, surprised. “You know her?”

Daisy nods, stepping closer. “She comes in here sometimes. We’ve been wondering about you.”

“We?”

“Oh,” she says, pink staining her cheeks. “Sorry. Sylvia lives across the street from me, and my friend Poppy lives next door. She’s been worried about Sylvia…”

“That’s why I’m here,” I tell her. “Poppy called me, but Gran seems fine.”

Daisy hesitates, as if unconvinced, but doesn’t press it. “Well… say hello to Poppy. She’s dying to meet you. You’ll know it’s her because of the baby…” Daisy trails off when she notices someone waiting to order. “I should get back. Great to meet you, Zinnia.”

“You too.” I smile, watching her leave, and my gaze snags on the man at the counter.

It’s him.

Nicholas.

He has his back to me, but it’s unmistakably him. Same tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches, same dark jeans, a leather crossbody bag slung over one shoulder. He’s taller than I realized, around six-two, with an armload of papers, light glinting off his wire-rimmed glasses as he turns to scan the room for a table. My heart jumps when his gaze meets mine. He blinks, as if surprised to see me, and I grin.

“Nick.” I motion for him to join me. “Here.”

He hesitates, balancing a muffin in his free hand, napkin slipping off the plate, gaze darting away again. Finally, he heads in my direction and, with a polite smile, says, “Thanks, I’ll take this one,” and slides into a chair at the table beside me.

My eyes follow his movements as he sets down his papers, pulling a fountain pen from his bag, his gaze carefully directed away from me. He’s cuter than I remember, with gray threaded through the tousled walnut-brown waves of his hair, sprinkled in the short beard on his jaw. I’d guess he’s in his early forties, and between the glasses and the jacket, he’s got that sexy teacher thing going on—a fact I did not fail to notice during our life-drawing class on Tuesday.

My lips quirk as I think back to that night. He’d seemed vaguely annoyed when I volunteered to model, and when I pulled off my dress, he couldn’t look away fast enough. He spent almost the entire class with his back turned, shoulders tense and rigid, looking anywhere but at me. Maybe I made it awkward. Maybe I moved wrong, stood incorrectly, joked too much. I didn’t even remove my underwear, for Christ’s sake.