Page 58 of She’s Worth the Risk

And as I choose a dress to wear for Nick, I pretend I’m only thinking about this evening, and nothing more.

It’s after eight when I finally get to the West Village. I wanted to give Nick time to come home and unwind after class, do whatever it is he does when he’s not at work.

Or maybe I was scared.

I walk between the rowhouses of Cornelia Street in the warm evening light, but the beautiful scenery does little to calm my racing heart. What if this is a mistake, showing up at his place unannounced? That’s assuming I actually know where he lives. He said it was beside the carriage house… or the cafe. Which is it?

I pass the carriage house first, pausing at the redbrick apartment block next to it, and when I spot his name—N. Sweetman—on the nameplate beside the intercom button, my pulse skitters. This is the place.

Shit. Am I really going to do this?

I hesitate, knowing there’s still time to back out. I could return to Brooklyn, and he’d be none the wiser. We’d see each other tomorrow night at life drawing as usual, and everything will be as it was. As it should be.

But that’s not what I want.

Taking a deep breath, I smooth a hand down my coral-colored wrap dress and press the buzzer. It’s deafeningly loud on the quiet street, and I wince, waiting for Nick’s voice over the intercom.

But it doesn’t come.

Huh. It never occurred to me he might not be home.

I feel a momentary flicker of relief, but it’s eclipsed by something else. Something more urgent. I don’t want to back down this time. And even if he won’t admit it, I don’t think he wants me to, either.

Lifting my hand, I go to press the buzzer again when the door flies open.

“Zinnia?” Nick blinks at me in shock, and my heart lurches into my throat.

“Hi,” I begin, but his brows crash together as he glances over my shoulder, along the street. Before I know what’s happening, he grabs my arm and yanks me into the building, pushing the door closed behind me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in a low voice. “Someone could see you.”

I try to still my shaking hands, reminding myself how much he likes Venus’s boldness. Reminding myself what he said to me in that bar, the raw edge of need in his voice, the desire burning hot in his eyes.

Reminding myself that he wants this as much as I do.

“I’m sick of pretending,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I think you are too.”

I half expect him to tell me to leave, but he swallows hard, staring at me unblinking for a long moment. “Come on,” he mutters, motioning up the stairs. “Before one of my neighbors comes out.”

I exhale in relief, climbing the stairs behind him. He lets me into his apartment on the second floor, a beautiful prewar place with polished wooden floors and exposed brick walls boasting an impressive collection of art prints, one entire wall lined with bookshelves. I might be here for Nick, but that doesn’t stop me from going to the shelves and examining his books, everything from medieval art to the Renaissance to modern, contemporary movements.

“Wow,” I breathe, running a finger along the spines. Why is it so damn hot that he has such a huge book collection? I glance back to find Nick watching me with a tiny smile.

He catches himself, letting it fall. “You shouldn’t be here, Zinnia.”

I straighten, nodding. “I know.” My gaze roams the rest of the room, landing on the coffee table. There’s a single glass of whiskey, and beside it, the sketchbook I bought him, which still appears to be untouched. “And I don’t care.”

Nick tugs his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt. He’s not wearing the tweed jacket, but he’s still in his shirt from today, hem untucked, sleeves rolled, top buttons loosened. Like he ran out of energy halfway through undressing.

“You didn’t seem like yourself in class today,” I say, fiddling with the tie on my dress. “I didn’t like it.”

He exhales heavily, picking up his whiskey and taking a swig, without offering me one. That’s okay. He’s still on the fence about me being here, and I’m grateful he hasn’t asked me to leave.

I gesture to the sketchbook on his coffee table. “You still haven’t used it?”

He shakes his head, not meeting my gaze as pink creeps onto his cheeks. God, I love when he gets self-conscious. It makes me want to kiss him senseless.

“Maybe I can give you some inspiration.”