Page 41 of She’s Worth the Risk

My brow furrows as one guy leans closer to whisper something in her ear, and she laughs. I recognize him from class, Cole Sandford. Early twenties, athletic, outgoing. The kind of guy most women her age would happily date. I can’t quite make out their conversation, but I hear her say something about Botticelli that makes him chuckle, and there’s a sour twist in my gut.

I wrench my gaze away, forcing it back to my work. I should be happy they’re here, studying for next week’s quiz.

But as more laughter drifts my way, I clutch my fountain pen in a death grip. What could possibly be so funny? I’ve taught this material for years and never once found it that hilarious. The more I hear Cole’s deep, confident voice, laced with mirth—and something more flirtatious—the more it grates at me.

I reach for my to-go cup with a scowl. I chose coffee today, hoping it would help me focus, but the liquid is bitter on my tongue. What is wrong with me? I’ve never had this reaction before. Never been bothered by one student flirting with another. It happens all the time, sometimes in the middle of class, for fuck’s sake. So why is this any different?

My jaw tightens as I glance over again to find Cole casually slinging an arm along the back of Zinnia’s chair, but instead of leaning closer, she tenses and inches away, and relief washes through me.

I know why this is different. I just don’t want to admit it.

Despite myself, I feel a secret rush of satisfaction at knowing I get to see her in ways Cole doesn’t. I picture her robe sliding to the floor in life-drawing class, revealing her milky-white skin. Those stolen moments at Joe’s, where we can talk like two regular people.

But that’s it, isn’t it? I might pretend at Joe’s, but that’s all it is—pretend. And when I stare at Cole, I realize why he bothers me so much.

Because he doesn’t have to pretend. He’s allowed to want her. He’s not her damn professor, and he’s a hell of a lot more age-appropriate than I am.

Shit.

I yank my glasses off, dragging an unsteady hand down my face. When I shove them back on, it’s to see Cole brush a finger across Zinnia’s bare shoulder, and my hand balls into a fist on the table.

What am I doing? Letting myself have these thoughts about Zinnia, this sick, jealous feeling over Cole laughing with her?

She’s not mine. She doesn’t belong with someone like me—a middle-aged professor who’s closed himself off to life, who’s awkward and uncomfortable in his own skin. Someone who lives his life in monotone, shades of gray.

Because Zinnia is my exact opposite in every way. Open, vibrant, full of life. At home in her body in ways I could never understand.

And Cole… I press my eyes shut as I hear him laugh again. He’s just like her. Young, outgoing, fun.

That’s who Zinnia belongs with.

I rise from the table, hastily gathering my papers, knocking over my leftover coffee in the process. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath. A few people glance up, but I ignore them, using a napkin from my bag to mop up the spill. Then I hurry from the room, my chest tight.

I need to stop having these thoughts about Zinnia once and for all.

I need to get a grip.

18

NICK

Zinnia is surprisingly quiet at life drawing later that night.

At first, I think it’s because of the weather, with heavy sheets of rain pounding the pavement as the students stream inside, moaning about what an awful night it is. But Zinnia’s not the type to let a little rain dull her mood, and as the class wears on without a hint of her usual, bubbly self, I wonder if it’s because of me, because I haven’t thanked her for her gift.

Or because I didn’t go to Joe’s this afternoon.

I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I forced myself to work in the corner of the faculty lounge, headphones on to drown out my colleagues. I made a little progress, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Zinnia and Cole, laughing in the library. I was so busy ruminating that I forgot I’d left my cell in my office, and had to ask Gary if I could use his to time tonight’s exercises.

I’ve never felt so scattered, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up. There are still three weeks of class left, and while it felt easy enough to compartmentalize before—on campus we’re professor and student, in Brooklyn Heights it’s more relaxed—those lines are blurring by the day.

Especially when Zinnia is on my mind day and night, regardless of where I am. My brain knows the difference, but I’m not sure my dick does.

Fuck.

I shake the thought off, instructing Zinnia on the final pose, then deliberately turning away to watch the rain lash the windowpanes.

Honestly, I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I’m not a guy who thinks about sex. It’s been years since I was last intimate with anyone, and even then, I could take it or leave it.