6. Zinnia
ZINNIA
N ick’s eyes meet mine the minute I walk through the door. I offer him a smile, wanting him to know I’m not bothered by the way he fled from Joe’s, but he frowns, tearing his gaze away. For the first time, I read it not as him irritated with me, but as him irritated with himself .
“Right,” he says brusquely to the room. “Settle in.”
June appears at my side, holding a silk robe. “Here you are, dear.” She motions to a set of pocket doors at the back of the studio. “Feel free to go through there to undress.”
“Thanks, June.” I take the robe, head through the doors, and step behind a folding screen, where I remove my dress.
My hands hover above the clasp of my bra for a moment as I recall Nick’s words from our first class: Traditional figure study is nude .
Then I unclip my bra, decide to leave my panties on, and slide on the silk robe.
The fabric is divine on my heated skin, and I take a second to enjoy the softness before padding back into the studio.
Nick has his back to me as I climb onto the pedestal, enrobed. When he doesn’t turn, I say, “Ready when you are.”
“Great.” He looks around the room, hands on his hips. “We’ll start with warm-ups again. Five minutes each pose. Zinnia,” he says, attention focused on the class, “take the contrapposto stance and angle yourself toward the window.”
“Sure.” I smile at his use of the word contrapposto after our conversation in Joe’s, but he still won’t look at me.
With a sigh, I drop the robe, letting it pool at my feet, and take the pose.
He starts the timer on his phone, then moves to the back of the studio, jamming his hands in his pockets as he stares at something on the wall.
When the timer sounds, he jumps, as if he’d forgotten it was on.
“Time,” he says to the class. “Right arm behind your head.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me, considering he’s looking anywhere but, and I quickly move into the next position.
Nick paces restlessly at the back of the room, gaze moving between easels, and I can’t tell if he’s figured it out yet.
That I’m more exposed than last time. He still won’t look up, even as the timer goes off and he instructs me to move into the last warm-up position, and I grow impatient.
I think of the blush in his cheeks, the way his composure slipped when he tried to explain Venus of Urbino , or rather, tried not to explain. Not to reveal why he’s so drawn to that beautiful painting.
I want him to look at me like that.
“Alright,” he says at last, taking his glasses off and wiping them on the sleeve of his shirt.
“We’re going to move on to one of the longer poses.
” He slides his glasses back up his nose and turns my way, almost as if by accident.
“If you could… just…” His words falter, as if his brain loses the thread, as he finally, finally looks at me.
Satisfaction warms me from head to toe. I smile as if I have no clue why he’s stumbling over his words. “Yes?”
He looks away sharply, the way someone yanks their hand away when they’ve burned it on a flame. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he takes a beat, then says in a voice that’s far too careful, “Twist your torso toward the front of the room and hold it.”
I watch him, waiting for him to look again, to say something more, but he doesn’t. “Like this?” I ask, half because I’m unsure of the pose, and half because I want him to turn back.
He swallows, forcing his gaze to me, expression neutral, as if it’s not affecting him in the slightest. “Yes, like that.” He’s as calm and composed as ever, but I hear it. The low, raspy edge to his voice that gives him away.
He sees me.
He likes it.
And he doesn’t want to.
I can’t stop my gaze from following him as he moves stiffly around the studio, as if holding himself tightly enough will keep his reaction in check.
The low hum of satisfaction deep within me ebbs away as he focuses diligently on the class’s work, pausing to guide a few where they’re faltering, never once glancing my way again.
And all I can think is, Look at me. Look at me and come undone.
The timer sounds, and I drop the pose, rolling my shoulders.
Nick announces that we’re taking a break before the final pose of the evening, and I sigh, pulling on my robe.
I grab a glass of wine from the refreshments table, taking a sip, as a couple of people approach.
Ruth, the woman who was so supportive of me in the first class, and a guy whose name tag says Gary .
He’s in his sixties, with a bristly mustache, a thick midsection, and I’m pretty sure I pick up a gay vibe.
“How are you getting on?” Gary asks, taking a plastic cup from the table. “Can’t be easy holding those poses for so long.”
I shrug. “It’s not so bad.” I glance between them, wondering if they’ve picked up on the tension radiating from Nick. As if reading my thoughts, Ruth leans closer.
“Our instructor seems a little… irritated this evening,” she observes.
Gary snorts into his wine. “He was like that last time, too. The guy needs to loosen up and relax.”
I smother a smile, glancing at Nick again.
He’s standing at the bay window, arms folded as he looks at the street below, his shoulders up by his ears.
What would relaxed Nick be like? At the coffee shop earlier, he wasn’t relaxed.
Far from it. And that’s when I had my clothes on. God, imagine if I’d removed my panties?
Gradually, everyone settles back into their seats, and I wait in the center of the room, wearing the robe. Nick hovers for a moment, as if considering something, then fetches a folding chair and places it on the pedestal.
“Sit here,” he tells me gruffly. He seems to catch himself, realizing he’s edging from blunt into straight-up rude, and drags his eyes to mine. “Please.”
“Of course.” I hold his gaze as I let the robe slide down my shoulders and settle on the floor. His nostrils flare, and his chest rises and falls as I sink onto the chair and gaze up at him, awaiting my next instruction.
“Cross your right leg. Elbow on the back of the chair.”
I do as I’m told, waiting for him to look away, but he doesn’t. A thrill zaps through me, especially when he realizes he’s staring, pulling his brow low and wrenching his gaze away.
But I can’t take my eyes off him as he paces the perimeter like a caged animal.
There’s a room full of people looking at me in the nude, and all I can see is him.
I’ve never been more aware of a man’s gaze, where it lands, how hard he’s trying to stop it from straying to me.
How long can he pretend he’s unaffected?
Ruth waves him over, motioning to her sketch with a low murmur, and Nick blows out a breath, lowering himself to his knees beside her.
As she talks, I watch him fumble with the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them absently to his elbows.
He rakes a hand through the rumpled waves of his hair, as if he’s exhausted and wrung out.
At last, he has no choice but to bring his gaze back to me, and I strain my ears to make out what he’s saying.
“See how… this part… extends and curves here?”
Ruth frowns. “Which part?”
Nick presses his eyes shut. “Her bust,” he grates out, like he can’t bring himself to say breasts.
Or, God forbid, tits . Would Nick ever call them tits?
I bet he doesn’t even think the word tits.
I try to imagine him in the throes of passion, saying something dirty like, Put your tits in my face , but the image won’t form in my head.
Honestly, I can’t even imagine him in the throes of passion.
He rises from beside Ruth to stalk the room again, pausing as he examines someone’s sketch. His gaze lifts to me, but instead of raking over me with unbridled lust like I want it to, he seems to be focused on my hand, draped across the back of the chair.
His brow pinches in agitation as he steps forward. “Soften your wrist.”
“My wrist?” I glance down, confused. “I thought I was?”
“No, you’re…” He sighs, hand hovering above mine. “May I?”
It takes a second to realize what he’s asking, and my heart skitters. “Of course.”
His fingers brush my skin, the briefest touch easing the tension from my wrist, but it sends awareness racing through me.
He’s close enough that I get a hint of his scent, some kind of cologne that’s clean and fresh and masculine.
Goosebumps rise on my skin, and he notices, eyes locking with mine.
The black of his pupils eclipses the soft denim blue of his irises, and in response, my breathing accelerates.
I run my tongue across my bottom lip, watching as his gaze falls to it, before he straightens quickly, yanking off his glasses to rub his eye with the back of his wrist, as if to rub away my image.
“That’s enough for tonight,” he grits out, shoving his glasses back on. A few murmurs break out among the class about finishing early, but Nick strides to the window, jamming his hands into his pockets, and people reluctantly pack up their belongings.
Shit.
I tug on my robe, feeling bad as I wave goodbye to Ruth and Gary, and a few other members of the class.
Is this my fault? Nick was uncomfortable last class, sure, but today was even worse.
Maybe if I hadn’t removed my bra, today’s session would have gone better?
He did say figure studies usually involve nudity.
But that’s not what motivated me today. Did I push him too far?
I begin folding the easels and stacking them on the wall, wanting to help. June never asked me to pack up, but I don’t have anywhere else to be. Besides, I’m desperate to speak to Nick.
Nick, however, seems desperate to do anything but speak to me. He keeps his back turned as he drags the pedestal away. I can’t explain why, but panic zips through me at the thought of him leaving like this, and I grasp for something to say.
“I looked up the painting you mentioned.”
He freezes.
“It’s breathtaking.”
He remains angled away from me, sleeves still pushed up his arms, and his hands go to his hips. My gaze traces his forearms, the inside of his wrists, wondering what his skin smells like there, how soft it is.
“It inspired me to be a little bolder this evening,” I add. “I hope that was okay.”
His head falls forward for a beat, then he sucks in a breath, straightens, and turns to me. “You did great,” he says, and just like that, he’s back to being as composed as ever. I should be relieved, but I’m not.
“Really?” I press. “It wasn’t too much?”
“Nope.” His expression remains unchanged, apart from a tiny flicker in his jaw. To anyone else it would be nothing, but I focus on it, letting it tell me what I need to know. He’s more affected than he’s letting on.
I watch as he folds the last of the chairs, then pulls on his tweed jacket.
Part of me wants to ask him if he’ll get a drink with me, but another part knows he wouldn’t dare take me up on it.
The more time I spend around Nick, the clearer it becomes how tightly wound he is.
If I want to see him come undone, that will take patience. Persistence.
I slip behind the folding screen to dress, smiling a secret little smile to myself. If Gran doesn’t need me this summer, I’m going to spend it getting to know Nick.
Because how freaking hot will it be when he finally loses control?