Page 89 of She’s Worth the Risk

NICK

By the following Tuesday, I’m a wreck. I haven’t seen Zinnia since our last life-drawing class on Thursday night, where she barely looked at me. I know it’s what I asked for, but shit, who knew it would hurt this much?

I deliberately spent the weekend away from her, prepping for the rest of this semester now that I have an additional class. Zinnia was busy too, especially now that she’s taken over for June at the community arts center on top of her classwork. And while putting distance between us was the right thing to do, it feels anything but.

My apartment taunts me mercilessly with the memory of her. The bed feels too empty without her, her floral scent still clings to my sheets. Everywhere I look, I think of her. Places we kissed, places we made love, places she teased me. It was like we fit an entire relationship into those two and a half weeks in my apartment, and it kills me to know I can’t have her there again.

That really, I can’t have her anywhere.

I order a double shot espresso on the way to campus, sipping it slowly as I walk. I haven’t slept in days, missing her so much it hurts, and for the hundredth time I pull my phone out to see if she’s texted. She hasn’t, of course. We agreed not to text, not to leave a record of our relationship. While I know she’s only doing what I asked, I can’t help but wonder, is she having second thoughts about me? About staying in the city?

God, this is so totally fucked up.

I’m restless as I enter the Silver Center, tense and strung-out after being away from her for so long. Maybe I should have let her quit the class. But really, what would that have achieved? I still can’t be seen with a student, current or otherwise. And I couldn’t have lived with myself, knowing she’d given it up for me.

I shove my office door open, tossing my half-drunk coffee into the trash. The caffeine is only making things worse. What I need is to see Zinnia. To speak to her, just for a moment, so I know we’re okay. So I know she doesn’t regret this.

But first, I have to teach her.

Gathering my laptop and notes, I head to the lecture hall. The class is settling in as I plug in my laptop, and despite my best efforts, I can’t stop my gaze from scanning the room, looking for her. When I fail to spot those familiar dark bangs, my heart twists. She hasn’t quit, has she?

But she enters a moment later, head lowered, and I breathe out, trying to ignore the fleeting sense of déjà vu. Her eyes meet mine as she takes her seat, and my pulse jumps. I stare at her, trying to communicate without words just how much I care about her.

How I wish everything could be different.

I’m interrupted by Cole, sauntering up to the lectern. “Hey, Mr. Sweetman.”

“Professor,” I grate out, bringing up the first slide. It’s bad enough this kid is in another one of my classes, but what I can’t stand is the way he always sits beside Zinnia. The way he seems to think they’re best friends.

“Professor,” he corrects, straightening. “So, I can’t be here for Thursday’s class because I’ve got a basketball thing, and I was wondering…” he trails off as I give him a look that says I couldn’t care less. I know he’s about to ask for notes, and there’s no way in hell. He reads it on my face, lifting his hands. “Got it. I’ll get notes from someone else.” Then he slinks off to the front row, slipping into the chair next to Zinnia.

My Zinnia.

She doesn’t look up as he settles beside her, but when he leans close to say something in a low voice, she laughs. My jaw clenches, and I force my attention back to the lecture. To figuring out how, exactly, I’ll get her alone for a minute. I can’t take her to my office again, not with colleagues passing by, not when it reminds me too much that I’m her professor.

Not after what happened there last time.

I move through the slides, trying to focus on what I’m saying. We’re looking at private versus public patronage, and how the source of the funding shaped the subject matter. When I bring up Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus, a spectacular example of private art similar to Titian’s masterpiece, Zinnia’s eyes light up. She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, her gaze moving from the projected image to me. We share a knowing look, one that says the artwork is stunning, but not as beautiful as Venus of Urbino.

And as I tear my gaze away and move on, a plan forms in my mind. A way to get Zinnia alone. It’s not perfect, but it’s all I’ve got, and at this point, I’ll do whatever it takes.

When class wraps up, I motion for Zinnia to come to the lectern. “Miss Sinclair, a word, please?”

She hovers for a moment, then approaches with caution. “Yes, Professor?” Her tone is neutral, unreadable, and if I’d had any doubts about getting her alone, they vanish. I need to speak to her before I go crazy.

“You seemed to enjoy Sleeping Venus,” I begin casually, closing my laptop.

“It’s beautiful,” she agrees, glancing at the door.

“It is. Unfortunately, the digital projector flattens the shadows. There’s an old-school slide projector in the archive room that’s far superior.” I wipe my palm on my pants, realizing it’s clammy. “Would you like to see it?”

Her eyes meet mine, moving hesitantly over my face. I hold my breath, realizing I’m nervous. No, not nervous, terrified. Terrified she’ll say no.

Terrified this is over.

But she nods, a tiny smile ghosting across her lips. “Yes,” she says quietly. “I’d like to see it.”

The air rushes from my lungs in relief. I gather my things from the lectern, and we head out of the lecture hall. My heart races as I walk along the corridor with Zinnia, but I hold my head high as if nothing unusual is happening. I’ve walked with students down this corridor many times before. This is no different.