Page 68 of She’s Worth the Risk

As if sensing my presence, she turns, her eyes lighting when she sees me. She bites her lip to keep her smile in check, but it’s too big to be contained. That smile hits me right in the chest. She’s so fucking happy to see me, and I don’t know what to do with it.

“Professor Sweetman,” she says when I cross to her. “What a coincidence.”

“Miss Sinclair,” I reply, even though no one is close enough to hear. “It sure is. What are you doing here?”

“I have a date.” Her eyes glitter, and it’s an effort not to haul her into my arms and kiss her.

“A date?” I reply, turning to stare at Pollock’s work to hide my own smile. “Lucky guy.”

“Actually, I’m the lucky one.”

Shit, she’s cute.

“Is that so?” I ask, stroking my jaw as if contemplating the painting deeply. “And why is that?”

“Well, he’s incredibly handsome,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her words. “Incredibly smart.” She lowers her voice, only for me. “And he has the body of a Greek god.”

Fuck.

My neck heats, breath quickening. Every time this woman compliments my body, I’m torn between wanting to hide and wanting to strip naked for her.

“He sounds like a real catch,” I say, voice pitching lower.

“He is.”

Her hand brushes mine, unnoticeable to anyone else, but enough to send fireworks shooting up my arm. I lose the battle, turning to look at her, and her hazel eyes darken.

Goddammit. Why did I bring her to a museum, of all places? Somewhere people might recognize me?

I swallow, forcing my gaze back to the painting. “What do you think?” I ask, motioning to Pollock’s jumble of paint splatters.

“I love it,” Zinnia says without hesitation, and I smother my smile. Why does that not surprise me? The woman who feels everything easily, who lives in the moment.

“Why?”

“There’s so much happening. I can almost feel what the artist was feeling. The movement, the emotion.”

I nod. It’s exactly how I see it, which is exactly why I don’t like it.

“What do you think?” she asks, and I consider how to answer respectfully.

“It’s a little… chaotic.”

“It’s super chaotic,” she agrees. “But look.” She steps closer, motioning to the slight border of canvas Pollock has left. “It doesn’t fully reach the edges. That makes the chaos contained. And when it’s contained, it’s safe.” She pauses before adding thoughtfully, “It’s intense emotional expression, safely contained. That’s powerful.”

My gaze slides to Zinnia. She’s still studying the painting intently, eyes mapping every streak of paint, but I can’t stop looking at her. My head spins as I try to process her words, how easily she reframed Pollock’s piece from unruly chaos to contained emotion. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I’m continually surprised by the way she sees the world, the way she makes me see the world differently.

And it makes me forget where we are.

I step closer, sliding my hand under her chin to tilt her face to mine. Her brows pop up in surprise, but that doesn’t stop me from lowering my lips to hers. They’re as soft and sweet as I remember, and I nudge them open, sweeping my tongue into her mouth. She melts against me, arms twining around my neck, and every drop of blood in my body rushes south.

Fuck, I need her so badly it hurts.

But the sound of voices nearby snaps me out of it, and I step back on unsteady legs, putting distance between us.

Holy shit, what am I doing?

My heart pummels my ribs as I glance around in panic, but it’s only a couple with a stroller passing by. Inhaling slowly, I try to pull myself together. We’re in public, for fuck’s sake. Someone who knows me could see.