She’s Worth the Risk (Forbidden on Fruit Street #5)

1. Zinnia

ZINNIA

M y first thought, when I climb out of the cab at Gran’s house in New York City, is that I’ve missed this place.

I gaze up at the four-story Italianate brownstone, situated on Fruit Street, Brooklyn Heights.

The house fits perfectly among the townhouses of this quiet, tree-lined street, and a familiar ache stirs behind my ribs as I think about all the summers I spent with Gran in the city, visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art or strolling through Central Park.

I don’t know when, exactly, I stopped coming for the summer, but it’s been a while.

A few years, at least. It’s ridiculous that it took a phone call from Gran’s neighbor to get me back here.

With a sigh, I push the unsettling feeling away and drag my suitcase up the stoop. Pulling out my key, I hesitate before sliding it into the lock. It sticks a little, reminding me how long I’ve been away, and guilt tugs at me as the heavy oak door swings open.

“Gran?” I call, wheeling my suitcase into the foyer.

I inhale the nostalgic scent of Gran’s house; Chanel No.

5 and the faintest hint of bergamot from the Earl Grey tea she always brews.

My duffel bag slides off my shoulder and lands with a thump as I close the front door behind me, casting my gaze over the place.

Same butter-yellow wallpaper, faded and curling at the corners.

Same parquet floor, weathered from a century and a half of use.

Same mahogany coat stand and narrow hall table, cluttered with mail and keys.

And, with a frown, I notice a vase of long-dead tulips festering in murky water.

“Zinnia?” Gran’s voice drifts from above, and I glance up to see her shuffling down the worn wooden stairs, one gnarled hand clutching the banister. She looks frailer than I remember, shoulders a little hunched, the blue veins of her hands more pronounced under paper-thin skin.

“Gran.” I rush to help her, but she waves me away. She’s never liked people making a fuss, even if it seems more warranted than ever. Have these steps always been so steep?

“My darling,” she says, thin arms circling me from the bottom step.

“It’s so good to see you.” She squeezes me tight, and my stomach unknots a little.

She might look fragile, but she’s still the tough woman I remember.

A fact that is confirmed as she leans back to narrow her eyes at me.

“I thought you were flying in later tonight?”

“I mixed up my flight details,” I lie, pushing away the dart of guilt. Gran’s the one person I’ve never lied to, but today I had no choice. If I’d told her my real arrival time, she would have shown up at the airport to collect me, and there’s no way I wanted to drag her all the way to JFK.

Her brown gaze moves across me, as shrewd as ever. “A trip to Queens won’t kill me, my dear. It’ll take a lot more than that.”

Relief bubbles in my chest as I register the amused glint in her eye.

When her neighbor, Poppy, called to say she was worried about Gran, I panicked.

I’m sure it’s nothing, but… Poppy had said, and when she trailed off, my overactive imagination didn’t hesitate to fill in the rest. I had images of Gran putting her keys in the refrigerator.

Microwaving the remote. Lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the steps.

It took me all of two seconds to decide to ditch my temp job and get on a last-minute flight out of Austin to be there for her.

Or maybe I was looking for an excuse to leave.

But from what I can tell, she’s fine. Sure, the wrinkles lining her forehead are deeper than when I was here last, but she’s still Gran, with the same white hair, neatly pinned back, same Hermès scarf knotted carefully around her neck, same fuchsia lipstick, even if the edges are a little wobblier than last time.

“You should know by now you can’t hide anything from me,” Gran says wryly, and I chuff a sheepish laugh.

“You’re right.”

A long breath gusts out of me as I give Gran another squeeze.

The relief at seeing her is palpable, but underneath that, guilt gnaws at me.

I shouldn’t have waited so long to visit.

Poppy may have overreacted, but there’s no denying how good it feels to be back here.

It’ll be nice to spend the summer together, like old times.

We can visit the Met and picnic in the park.

Do all the fun things we used to do, before I leave town again.

Besides, it’s not like I had any other plans for the summer.

“Now, let me look at you,” Gran says, reaching out to brush a strand of long black hair over my shoulder. “You got bangs. They suit you.” Her eyes twinkle. “As does the nose piercing.”

Instinctively, I touch the tiny stud in my nose, smiling. Of course, she hasn’t seen that yet. I got it a few months ago on a whim, for my twenty-fifth birthday.

“But you’ve lost weight,” she adds, a crease forming between her brows as she examines me carefully from head to toe. “Don’t get too skinny on me, Z.”

I snort a laugh. Of all the words someone might use to describe me, skinny isn’t one of them.

My weight fluctuated as a teenager, stabilizing in my early twenties, but I’ve always carried more on my hips and bust than anywhere else.

Gran taught me the importance of body acceptance, even if I was taunted in every new school I set foot in, and I’ve learned to love my curves.

When I look at Gran and think about what a blessing it is to have a healthy, functioning body to grow old in, who cares about a few extra pounds?

“I won’t, Gran,” I say with a chuckle, reaching for my bags. “Top floor as usual?”

She nods. “Your bed is made up for you, darling.”

She begins up the stairs again, and I hesitate, wondering if it’s too much for her, before quickly dismissing the notion and lugging my bags up behind her.

We pass the second floor, with a bathroom, Gran’s bedroom, and another large room overflowing with books and an impressive art collection, before finally reaching the top floor.

I’d forgotten what a good workout Gran’s apartment is, and by the time we’re at my room, I’m sweating in the July heat.

Gran, on the other hand, isn’t even out of breath. And to think I was worried about her.

Thankfully, the dormer window is open, letting warm air flow into the room, and I set my suitcase and duffel bag beside the bed with a smile.

The sloped attic ceilings, iron-framed bed, and rolltop desk against the faded floral wallpaper instantly take me back to the summers of my childhood.

This room—this house—has been my one constant over the years, and I’m relieved to see it hasn’t changed.

I watch the dust motes dance in the late afternoon light, that familiar ache tugging at my chest.

Gran crosses the room over creaking floorboards and opens a door set into the sloped wall under the roofline, revealing a row of wooden coat hangers above a bank of drawers. “The closet’s all yours,” she says, even though I never unpack. What’s the point when I’ll be gone soon, anyway?

“Thanks, Gran,” I say, gaze snagging on the desk, its top rolled up, revealing a neat stack of papers under the snowglobe of the Colosseum Gran bought the summer she took me to Italy. I pick it up, smiling as the flakes settle, and motion to the papers. “What are these?”

“Those, my dear Zinnie, are your summer plans.”

I blink, setting the snowglobe aside to pick up a weighty envelope with NYU stamped in the corner, addressed to me at Gran’s house.

When I glance quizzically at Gran, she motions for me to look inside.

I tear open the flap to find a letter confirming my enrollment in a summer class, Renaissance Art History: Italy & Europe, with Dr. Nicholas Sweetman, Mondays and Wednesdays, 1-3 p.m.

I frown. Seriously? She signed me up for summer school?

“Gran…” I begin, but she shakes her head, handing me another paper from the desk. It’s a small flyer from the Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center, Figure drawing from live models, all levels welcome , Tuesday and Thursday nights, 7-9 p.m.

“It’s already paid for,” Gran says, as if this might reassure me. I open my mouth to protest again, but she adds, “You didn’t think I was going to let you sit around here all summer watching me like a hawk, did you?”

I stifle a laugh. That’s exactly what I’d planned to do, but it seems kind of silly now that I’m here and Gran is fine. Still, it stings a little. I guess I’d assumed that after all the years I’ve been away, Gran would be glad for my company.

“You don’t want to spend time with me?”

“My dear girl,” Gran says, taking me by the shoulders.

“Of course I do. It’s an absolute pleasure to have you here.

” Her skin is cool and leathery against mine, and she gives me a squeeze, then releases.

“But you’re a young woman in the big city!

You’ll be bored spending every minute with me.

” She softens. “It will be good for you, Zin. You love art. Remember our trip to Italy?”

I glance at the snowglobe. She’s right, I adored that trip. Our visit to the Accademia Gallery in Florence was especially memorable, seeing Michelangelo’s David statue up close.

“You couldn’t ask for a better professor,” she adds. “Dr. Sweetman is a leading expert in the field.”

“And the life-drawing classes?”

Gran lifts a bony shoulder. “Why not? They might help you find your inner artist. Besides, I can’t have you sitting around here every night, Zinnia. I have a social life of my own, you know.”

I huff a quiet laugh. That’s true. Gran’s always been sociable, juggling time volunteering at local art galleries, going to the theater, and hosting book clubs.

She’s been that way ever since my grandfather died when I was a baby.

I’d assumed she might have slowed down over the years, but apparently not.

“Okay,” I concede, laughing. It’s not how I’d planned to spend my summer, but then I’d assumed I would be at Gran’s bedside nursing her back to health, so none of this has turned out how I’d imagined.

“If you want me out of the house, I should find a job,” I suggest. Maybe I can pick up something temporary for a few weeks.

But Gran shakes her head, looking offended. “Nonsense. You’re my guest. You know I’ll take care of you.”

“Of course, but—”

“I won’t hear a word of it, Zinnia,” she cuts in firmly. “Use this summer for you .”

I blow out a breath. There’s no use arguing with Gran once she’s made up her mind.

“Now.” She claps her hands together. “Why don’t I get dinner started? Come down when you’re ready, and you can fill me in on everything that’s happened while you’ve been away.”

“You don’t have to…” I begin, but Gran silences me with a look, though I sense this one is less about me cramping her independence and more about her wanting to feed me.

I bite back a smile. “Alright, Gran. I’ll be down soon.”

She nods, closing the door behind her as she leaves the room, and I exhale long and slow, tossing the papers onto the nightstand.

I’m back in the city. In this room . I’d forgotten how stifling it can feel up here in the summer heat, and I tug my cotton dress over my head until I’m just in my bra and panties, then flop onto the bed.

The old comforter is soft and smooth from decades of washing, and I luxuriate against it, enjoying the cool cotton against my bare skin.

My gaze finds the crack in the plaster of the old attic roof, following the contour that looks like the outline of a man’s arm.

The dip of a shoulder, the curve of a bicep.

I looked at that crack for hours every summer over the years, memorizing it without meaning to.

When I lost my virginity to Adam Jones in tenth grade behind the bleachers, I pressed my hands to his shoulders, his arms, seeking the contours I’d already known.

The sex was awful, of course, but I didn’t care.

I’d never felt so alive, never felt such a thrill, and I’ve chased that feeling again and again over the years, sometimes with men I barely like, sometimes with strangers, always for the same reason: the way it makes my body feel electric.

The way it makes me forget everything but that moment.

I roll onto my side, gaze landing on the NYU envelope on the nightstand.

With a sigh, I pick it up to leaf through the contents.

I’m still not thrilled about being pushed into summer school, but it’s only for six weeks, and at least class doesn’t start until next Monday.

I stuff the envelope into the drawer of the nightstand, putting it from my mind.

The life-drawing class, however, is ongoing, and that starts tomorrow night. I scrunch my nose at the thought of sketching some random person in a stuffy Brooklyn studio. I like to look at beautiful things, but I’m no artist. Hell, given the choice, I’d prefer to be the model.

Still, maybe Gran’s right. She doesn’t need me hovering around her twenty-four-seven when she’s clearly doing just fine. This is something to pass the time, at least.

Something to get out of my head.

The scent of Gran’s pot roast drifts up the stairs, and my stomach rumbles. I grin, tug my dress back on, and skip down the stairs.