22. Zinnia
ZINNIA
T he waitress sets our tray of drinks on the table, and I watch as Violet reaches for her virgin cocktail.
“You doing okay?” I ask across the booth.
“I’m feeling a little better,” she says. “I think this is what I needed.”
Poppy grins, sipping from her wineglass. “You and me both.”
I exchange a knowing smile with Daisy and Iris, and we clink glasses. Turns out it’s what I needed, too. When Poppy knocked on Gran’s door last week, bringing cupcakes and an invitation to girls’ night, I didn’t realize it would come at the perfect time.
“Is Kyle still driving you nuts?” Daisy asks, and Violet releases a grim laugh.
“Yes. I love the guy, but honestly, he’s smothering me. Who knew he’d be so protective?”
Poppy touches Violet’s belly with a smile. “He just cares about the little bean.”
“He cares too much,” Violet growls around her straw.
“Is there such a thing?” Iris asks, and Violet sighs, mouth softening into a smile.
“No.” She strokes her belly. “And even though this wasn’t planned, there’s no one I’d rather do it with than Kyle.”
I smile, listening to the women talk. They ask Poppy how Rose’s sleep is progressing, Daisy how a photoshoot went last week, and Iris how her studies are going, before moving on to me.
“What about you, Zinnia? How are classes with the hot professor?”
I let out an awkward laugh, glancing at my glass.
This past week was… difficult. Try as I might, I’ve been unable to stop replaying that moment on the steps at the Met.
The moment Nick told me he felt nothing.
Maybe I should be hurt that he lied, or angry that he left me standing out on that ledge alone, but all I feel is guilt.
An ocean of guilt.
I put him in an impossible position. There’s no doubt in my mind that he feels this, but it wasn’t fair to ask him. To expect him to admit it outright.
It doesn’t matter what I feel. You’re my student .
He’s right, and I’ve known that all along. I don’t know what came over me, cornering him in the stairwell like that. I respect Nick so much, and it’s clear he respects me too. Pressuring him to risk his job by telling me he has feelings for me was the least respectful thing I could have done.
Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed by my behavior. I’m used to living in the moment, being spontaneous, going after what I want with little regard for the consequences, mainly because I never stick around long enough to find out what they might be.
But with Nick… I don’t know. I care about how he perceives me.
I care about his opinion. Maybe that’s why I tried to impress him with all that stuff about Michelangelo’s David before I even knew who he was.
Why I felt the need to explain my panic during the blackout.
Why I poured my heart and soul into my final assignment. Whatever it is, it’s unfamiliar.
And pretty damn unsettling.
It felt important to give him space after the Met.
That hasn’t been easy to do, given I’m in his class at NYU and we work together at the community arts center, but it felt like it was what he needed too.
So I’ve kept my distance, being nothing other than cordial and polite, waiting for the right time to apologize.
Hoping he’ll accept it when I do.
“Class is fine,” I say at last, sipping my wine. “It ends next week.”
Iris turns to face me in the booth. “Have you thought any more about enrolling for fall?”
I open and close my mouth, unsure how to respond.
I’m surprised to feel a gnawing sense of unease about the end of this class approaching.
Usually, I’m ready to move on the moment something wraps up, if not sooner, but this time is different.
Maybe it’s Nick. Maybe it’s being at Gran’s.
Maybe it’s this new group of women I feel very at home with.
Or maybe it’s the art itself.
I thought summer school would be a drag, that classes would be dull and assignments would feel like a chore, but it’s been the opposite.
I’ve flipped through my textbooks out of interest, reading beyond the set chapters each week, hungry for more.
Gran instilled a love of art in me from a young age, so it makes sense I’m enjoying the class, but I didn’t expect to love it quite so much. To be almost sad that it’s ending.
Is it possible I could study more next semester? Not a full degree, but maybe another class? Gran said I’m welcome to stay longer, even if the thought of committing to a full semester makes me squirm in my seat.
I shake the thought off, smiling at the women. No need to decide anything now.
Before I can respond, Poppy leans closer, motioning behind my shoulder, across the bar. “Do you know that guy? He keeps looking at you.”
I twist in my seat, gaze landing on a familiar head of walnut-brown waves. Nick sits at the bar alone, nursing a whiskey, head bowed.
My heart jumps. What’s he doing here? This hardly seems like his scene. And doesn’t he live in the West Village?
“That’s the guy from Joe’s!” Daisy hisses, eyes wide. She looks at me. “Isn’t he your professor?”
I nod, sipping my wine. Nick glances over his shoulder, his gaze colliding with mine, and he stills. He looks different. Looser. His disheveled hair looks as if he’s run his hands through it in frustration. Or weeks of pent-up longing. The thought makes my pulse leap, and I force my gaze away.
Iris elbows me. “He is cute. Well done, Zinnia.”
A nervous laugh escapes me. They don’t know how I embarrassed myself last week. How he walked away. How I’ve barely said two words to him since.
“You should go talk to him,” Poppy says, grinning.
I glance back at Nick, who’s returned to his whiskey. Maybe I should. Now seems as good a time as any to apologize, away from our usual scene. And the liquid courage will help.
I drain my glass, setting it on the table. “Fine. I need another drink anyway.” The women grin at me as I rise, and I feel the need to add, “But please behave yourselves over here.”
They laugh, Poppy holding her hands up in surrender, Daisy tugging me down by the arm to be heard above the music.
“We’d never embarrass you. But we’re here if you need us.”
“Thanks.”
I smile, smoothing my hands over my outfit.
It’s a black minidress with thin straps and a hem that cuts mid-thigh.
Even though it’s far more than I wear in front of him at life drawing, I feel a ripple of self-consciousness as I approach the bar.
I’m not used to feeling self-conscious in front of, well, anyone, and quickly order another wine before sliding onto the barstool beside Nick.
“Hi,” I say, smiling tentatively.
He glances up, those blue eyes of his meeting mine behind his glasses. Even in the dim light of the bar, I can see the flush in his cheeks, suggesting he’s had a couple drinks already.
Shit, maybe this is a bad idea.
The bartender sets my glass of wine in front of me, and I glance back at the booth. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” But Nick’s hand lands on my arm, taking me by surprise.
“No,” he says, voice more gravelly than usual.
I glance down, skin burning under his touch.
His hands are large, corded with veins snaking up his forearms, disappearing into the rolled cuffs of his green button-down.
The undone top button reveals a peek of salt-and-pepper chest hair, and I can’t stop staring at it.
It’s weird seeing him without the tweed jacket, in a good way.
Like he’s less my professor, more simply a man. A man in a bar that I could…
Stop it, Zinnia , I chastise myself. Behave .
Nick withdraws his hand, and I stuff down the disappointment that rises inside me. I’m here to apologize, not make the situation worse.
“Listen, uh, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
His brows rise, but he doesn’t say anything, so I forge ahead.
“I should never have said what I did in the stairwell at the Met.” I take a slug of wine for courage. “You’re my professor, and I respect you a lot. I’m sorry I crossed a line.”
Nick’s eyes move between mine, his expression unreadable. He lifts his glass to his mouth for a slow sip, then finally says, “I can’t accept your apology.”
My stomach plummets. Of course he can’t. I was so out of line that day. I’ve been out of line from the start, haven’t I? Pushing him in life drawing, teasing him at Joe’s, clinging to him during the blackout. I’ve crossed the line one too many times, and he’s finally had enough.
“I can’t accept it,” Nick repeats, gaze pinned on mine, “because you were right.”
“Right?” I repeat uncertainly.
He nods. “I lied, Zinnia.” His grip tightens on his glass. “Of course I feel this.”
My pulse surges. “You do?”
He stares at me hard, as if fighting some internal battle, then his gaze sweeps the length of my body, and I feel it as if it were his hands. My blood heats, a shiver of want passing through me as he brings his dark eyes back to mine.
“Yes,” he rasps. “Fuck yes.”
I suck in a shuddering breath. Is this really happening? I don’t want to push him, but I have to hear him say it. I have to know.
“Then tell me,” I plead. “ Tell me, Nick.”
“Fine, you want me to say it?” he growls.
“You want to hear that I look forward to life drawing every week, just so I can look at you? That I go to Joe’s early on purpose, just for a few minutes to talk to you?
That all I can think about is capturing your perfect curves with my pencil?
” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and desperate.
“That I can’t get you out of my fucking head? ”
Holy shit .
I stare at him in disbelief, heart thundering. I knew he felt it too, but not like this. I’ve never seen him so undone. He’s finally, finally letting himself feel something, and fuck me if it isn’t the hottest thing ever. If I thought I wanted him before, it’s multiplied by a thousand now.
“Nick,” I whisper urgently, hand landing on his arm to draw him closer, but he shakes his head, exhaling heavily.
“None of that changes the fact that you’re my student.”
Goddammit .
I swallow, forcing myself to pull away. He’s right. I know that hasn’t changed, and I don’t want him to do anything that would jeopardize his career.
But I also know this: “I won’t be your student in a week.”
His eyes flash with heat, as if he hadn’t considered that. His gaze falls helplessly to my mouth, and I feel him waver, caught between doing what’s right and what’s oh-so-deliciously wrong.
“Nick!” a voice calls from across the bar.
He blinks, as if coming out of a trance, glancing over his shoulder to a booth full of guys. So that’s why he’s here. One of them waves him over, and he blows out a breath, dropping his head.
“I have to go.”
I watch him drain his glass before sliding reluctantly off the barstool. It’s all I can do not to grab his hand and tug him back to me, not to kiss him like I desperately want to. Need to.
Instead, I take my glass of wine and walk on wobbly legs to the women in the booth, trying my best to appear normal, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job. My hands shake as I take a sip of wine, and Violet leans in.
“What happened?”
“He told me he has feelings for me,” I say. Maybe I should lie, but honestly, I’m not sure I could keep this inside if I tried.
“Wow,” Poppy says, eyes wide. “Just out of nowhere?”
I cringe. “No. I kind of… asked him about it last week, and he said he felt nothing. Then, when I tried to apologize for it now, he told me I was right. That he feels it too.”
I cradle my wineglass, replaying his words. I can’t get you out of my fucking head . If anything, it’s good to know I’m not alone in this, even if he won’t act on it.
“He also reminded me I’m his student,” I add.
Iris’s eyes twinkle over her wineglass. “Only for another week, right?”
“Yes,” I say, thinking of that look in his eye when I reminded him of that fact.
“So, wait.” Iris grins, shrugging. “And when class is over, go for it.”
I laugh. What am I going to do, follow him back to his office the minute class ends? Strip on his desk and demand he take me right there? As much as I like the thought of that, I know it wouldn’t be right.
But maybe Iris is right. Knowing he feels this as intensely as I do… I can’t do nothing.
I just need to wait until he’s no longer my professor.