Page 16 of She’s Worth the Risk

My chest fills at the memory, and I race to capture Nick’s words as he explains how Giotto’s early attempts at three-dimensional space and realistic human emotion foreshadowed what was to come in the Renaissance. And while I’m fascinated to learn more about the beautiful chapel, it’s hard to reconcile the dry, academic way he discusses Giotto’s masterpiece with the way it felt to stand inside it. Either he hasn’t seen it for himself, or he’s forgotten how awe-inspiring it is.

By the time class wraps up, I’m buzzing. The awkwardness from earlier is the last thing on my mind as I gather my laptop and textbook, then bounce down the steps to the front of the lecture hall.

“Nick! Hi.” I grin, hugging my textbook to my chest. I’m eager to talk to him about the chapel, to tell him I’ve seen it, ask if he’s been, but as I approach the podium, he stiffens.

“It’s Professor Sweetman,” he mutters.

Well, that’s fair. We’re in class, after all.

“Professor Sweetman,” I amend, laughing. “I had no idea you were my teacher. What a small world.”

He says nothing as he gathers his notes, refusing to meet my gaze.

“Have you seen the Scrovegni Chapel in person?” I ask. “Gran took me, and I swear, it was the most amazing—”

“I have to go.” He glances past me to the door.

“Oh. Sure.” I shift my textbook to my other arm. “Which way are you heading? Let’s walk—”

“Look, Miss Sinclair,” he cuts in coolly. “I don’t know what you think is happening here, but we’re not friends.”

I blink as the sting of his words registers. He’s been blunt in the past, but never like this. My hands tighten on my textbook, embarrassment burning my chest.

He’s right, of course. We’re not friends.

We’re not anything.

See, a mean little voice reminds me. This is why you don’t get attached.

My pulse pounds in my temple as he snatches up his laptop and strides from the lecture hall, not once looking at me. All the lovely memories of the chapel and Italy vanish, and I dip my head as I hurry out of the building, desperate to get home. Well, to Gran’s house.

The closest thing I’ve ever had to home.

The embarrassment from class fades into the muted ache of disappointment by the time I get to Fruit Street. It’s my own fault. I should have known better than to let myself develop an interest in Nick. This is why I prefer to keep things casual. The shorter the better. With men, with friends. With jobs, with apartments. Nothing lasts, so why delude yourself?

The only person I’ve ever let myself get attached to is Gran, and she won’t live forever. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve grown distant over the past few years. An attempt to steel myself against the inevitable loss when the time comes.

And yet, Gran’s as full of life as ever. It’s clear she doesn’t need me here, and I’m wondering if I should move on sooner than planned. Sure, I could continue with life drawing and art history, but they’re just summer distractions. I won’t pursue either once I leave. And let’s face it, Nick has made it pretty clear I don’t belong there.

I don’t belong anywhere.

A sound on the neighboring stoop catches my attention as I arrive at Gran’s, and I glance across to see a woman with long, caramel-brown hair holding the arm of a pregnant blond woman as they descend the front steps. I think back to what Daisy said in Joe’s, about recognizing Poppy because of the baby. This must be her.

“Hi,” I call from Gran’s stoop, waving to the women. They turn to me with interest, and I add, “You must be Poppy.”

“No, I’m Violet.” The blond motions to the woman beside her, who smiles. “And this is Iris.”

“Oh.” My face heats. Shit, I’m putting my foot in it today. “Sorry. I’m Zinnia, Sylvia’s granddaughter. I met Daisy at Joe’s, and she told me Poppy had a baby, so…” I gesture to Violet’s belly, then freeze in horror as I realize I’ve committed the ultimate cardinal sin, assuming a woman is pregnant. “I mean, uh…”

But she laughs, and relief floods through me. “Yes, I’ve got one on the way, but Poppy has her little girl already.”

Iris grins as they reach the sidewalk. “We’re waiting for Poppy to put Rose down for a nap, then she’ll be out. She’s got cupcakes for Sylvia.”

As if on cue, a redheaded woman appears at the front door, a box in her arms, and a baby monitor clipped to her chest. “Sorry, guys, that took forever,” she says, clambering down the front steps. “She seems to be in this new phase where she wants to do anything other than sleep.”

Violet grimaces. “Great, I’m so looking forward to that,” she deadpans, and Poppy laughs.

“We could have taken the cupcakes for you,” Iris points out.