16. Zinnia
ZINNIA
L ife-drawing class is better than ever.
I’ve never seen Nick so loose, so at ease.
I mean, he’s still Nick , so it’s not like he’s drinking wine and cracking jokes or anything, but he’s still got his shirtsleeves rolled up, exposing those deliciously corded forearms, his hair rumpled and carefree as he wanders the room, leisurely chatting to students.
He’s so relaxed that Ruth pulls me aside on our break, lips twitching as she sips red wine from a plastic cup. “What do you think the story is there?” she asks, gesturing to Nick, chuckling at something Bernice says across the room.
I bite back a smile, adjusting the tie on my robe. “No idea.”
But I like to think I have some idea. That maybe, just maybe, he’s loosened up a little because of me.
Our conversation from Joe’s is still fresh in my mind. The way a curse slipped out when he realized we were running late. The way he laughed, sheepishly admitting to it.
The way he told me not to call him Professor .
I’m hot and bothered just thinking about it. The look in his eye when I asked him what he saw when he looked at me on that pedestal. He did his best to hide it, but I saw.
And God , it makes me want him.
By the time life-drawing class wraps up, I’m restless. I’m sure Nick feels the tension between us. I’m sure he knows that I want him, that he could have me in a heartbeat if he asked.
And I’m sure he won’t.
Why did I have to agree to summer school? If I’d only met Nick through life drawing, I might have had a shot. But now that I’m his student at NYU, it’s never going to happen.
Still, I can’t bring myself to regret attending his class. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have remembered all the things I love about art. I’ve been thinking about what Iris said, about how I do have a passion—for art. For the first time, I wonder if she could be right.
If only I could have the man who inspired it, too.
I help Nick pack up the easels at the end of the night, somehow feeling both full and hollow.
Talking with him this afternoon—really talking—has me on a high better than anything I smoked in high school.
But knowing that’s all I’ll ever get from him?
That sucks. Because there’s so much more to this man beneath the surface.
So much he tries to keep safely hidden away.
And I ache to touch it.
Instead, I walk briskly home, lock myself in my room at Gran’s, and touch myself.
Falling onto the bed, I tug my skirt up and slip my hand into my panties, picturing him.
I should work on my assignment because it’s due tomorrow, but I can’t get Nick out of my head.
I think of the adorable way his face reddened when I asked him if it was strange to be around a nude model, the way he pulled off his glasses as if he himself didn’t want to be seen.
What would it be like to kiss him? My fingers slide through my slickness, imagining it. He’d be tentative at first, not sure where to put his hands, glasses askew. But I’d show him what I wanted, how I like to be touched. I’d show him he doesn’t have to hold back with me.
Heat builds in my core as I imagine him tossing his glasses aside and kissing me hard, finally taking what he wants. That mouth of his, so used to talking about beauty and art and love, would feel it too.
A whimper escapes me as I imagine him climbing above me, the heat of his skin on mine. I work my fingers across my throbbing clit, picturing the silky steel of him in my hand, knowing how he’d like to be stroked, what would make that gorgeous mouth of his curse again.
“Fuck, Zinnia,” he’d choke out. “Yes, like that. Don’t stop.”
And then, when I’d gotten him worked up, he’d beg to be inside me. He’d beg for the thing he knows he’s not allowed to want.
“I need you,” he’d say breathlessly. “Please, baby. I need to feel that pussy wrapped around my cock.”
Fuck .
Thinking of straight-laced, ultra-composed Nick saying something so filthy is too much. My orgasm rips through me in a flash of sensation, and I writhe on the bed, legs kicking against the comforter, pleasure momentarily eclipsing the pain of knowing I’ll never be with him for real.
When I blink back to my senses, my gaze lands on the crack in the ceiling above, tracing the contours of a man’s arm.
It reminds me of Nick, when I asked if he drew, and the quiet, almost sad way he said, Not anymore .
I try to make sense of it as I brush my teeth and change for bed.
What that meant, why he would stop drawing.
I knew it wasn’t my place to ask, not today anyway, but I also know something else.
He should draw. He misses it.
He just won’t admit it to himself.
I settle into bed, deciding that tomorrow, I’ll swing by the art store Gran used to take me to as a kid.
I may not have Nick in the way I want, but I can do this.
I finish my assignment early the next day, then head out to the art store on Bleecker Street before class. It takes a while to select what I need, because I don’t actually know what kind of drawing Nick used to do. If he used charcoal or pencil, a sketchbook or loose-leaf paper.
In the end, I settle on what they use in life-drawing class: a simple spiral-bound sketchbook and a selection of pencils and charcoal.
Then I ask the clerk to gift wrap them for me because I want it to be a surprise.
I also want to give myself time to leave the room before Nick realizes what it is.
He may think I’m crossing a line, giving him this, and I’m not sure I could bear to see that wall crash down between us again after yesterday.
But I am sure he needs this, even if he won’t admit it.
After the art store, I grab a sandwich from a tiny cafe on a quiet, tree-lined street, eating as I walk slowly to campus.
It feels almost like Brooklyn Heights, with beautiful townhouses, dappled light falling between the leaves to cast interesting shapes on the ground.
A carriage house catches my attention, and I pause.
I know this one. This must be Cornelia Street.
Gran and I used to visit it when I was little.
It makes me smile as I continue to campus.
I’m a little early for class, but that’s okay. Nick has office hours directly after, so I can drop by then. I settle into the tiered seating and pull out my laptop, intending to go over the notes from our last class, when someone sits beside me.
“Zinnia, right?”
I glance up to find a young guy, around twenty-three, with sandy-blond hair, a chiseled jaw, and a confident smile. Cole, I think his name is. I’ve heard him chatting to a few other students, and I’m pretty sure I overheard him say he’s a business major, taking this class as an elective.
“Yes,” I say, twisting to face him. “You’re Cole?”
He nods, his grin widening. He’s the kind of guy I could easily find myself attracted to; comfortable in his own skin, confident, and effortlessly charming.
And yet, I feel nothing. Cole’s cute, but I can already tell everything I need to know about him. It’s all right there, on the surface.
Nick, on the other hand, has layers. Depth he tries so hard to conceal.
Sure, he’s physically attractive, with those tousled walnut waves threaded with gray, that salt-and-pepper scruff on his jaw, and his soft, denim-blue eyes.
The tweed jacket, coupled with those adorably nerdy glasses, gives him that effortlessly sexy professor look, which I’ve seen more than one student in our class appreciate.
But underneath that, I’m far more attracted to the man . How freaking intelligent he is. How reserved he is, the way his cheeks turn pink when he gets too self-aware. How beneath all that restraint, I can just tell there’s an ocean of intense passion waiting to be unleashed.
It makes a guy like Cole feel… boringly handsome.
“A few of us are getting together tomorrow to study for next week’s quiz,” he says easily. “You should join us.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I wasn’t planning to come to campus tomorrow since I don’t have class, but when he hands me his phone to enter my number, I do it, more out of politeness than anything else.
“Awesome. I’ll text you,” he says, pulling out his laptop.
Oh. He’s going to sit right beside me? The lecture hall isn’t even half full, and people usually sit quite spread out. But when he flashes me another grin, I smile tightly back.
It’s fine.
I turn back to my own laptop, noticing Nick at the podium, pulling up the first slide. His gaze flits to mine, darting to Cole and back to me, and I send him a little smile. He doesn’t return it, dropping his gaze to focus on his notes, but I catch the tiny uptick at the corner of his lips.
“Right, everyone, settle.” He turns to the class, smoothing a hand down his tie. “Today, we’re delving into idealized female beauty in Botticelli’s work.”
He clicks through to the next slide— The Birth of Venus , resplendent in her seashell—and glances at his notes on the podium. His brow furrows as if considering something, then he looks up.
“Someone recently pointed out how different the beauty standards were in Renaissance times compared to today.”
There’s a flutter low in my belly as I realize he’s talking about me. He’s not reading his notes; he’s speaking off the cuff, based on our conversation in Joe’s. Holy crap. I have to bite my lip to hold in my smile.
“Modern beauty is about control and restraint,” Nick says thoughtfully, pacing at the front of the lecture hall.
“But in Botticelli’s time, a soft stomach, round hips and thighs, and a full bust were considered desirable.
That softness was a sign of beauty.” His eyes meet mine. “Some believe it still is.”
Oh. Shit.
My pulse surges as he holds my gaze, eyes burning. He means me. He’s talking about me. He’s telling me I’m beautiful, in the only way he can.
I suck in a shaky breath as the realization hits, aching to cross the lecture hall and press my mouth to his.
Nick’s gaze slides away. “The real question,” he continues calmly, as if he hasn’t just made every atom in my body hum with want, “is why a culture so devoted to the divine became fascinated with the human form.”
He turns to the next slide, bringing up Primavera .
A quick glance at his notes, and he’s off again, more animated than I’ve ever seen him, removing his jacket at one point, gesturing as he speaks.
It reminds me of life-drawing class last night, and I can’t take my eyes off him, silently begging him to look my way again.
It’s not until class wraps up that I realize I haven’t taken any notes.
Crap.
“See you at study group tomorrow?” Cole asks as he rises.
“Definitely.” I’m going to need it after spacing out in that class, especially with the quiz next week.
He grins. “Great, I’ll text you the details.”
I pack up my laptop and textbook, desperate to speak to Nick, but I know better than to approach him in the lecture hall. I probably shouldn’t approach him at all, if I’m honest with myself, not with how I feel right now, but I need to give him my assignment.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s a thin excuse, considering most people submit them digitally. The real reason has more to do with giving him the sketchbook.
It takes me a few minutes to find his office along the hall, but that gives me time to simmer down. Time to collect myself after Nick looked at me like that. After he told me I’m beautiful, in front of everyone.
Not that anyone else realized, of course. They thought it was all part of the lecture.
But I know. I’ve known since that first life-drawing class, where he could barely look at me, as if he felt too much when he did.
And it makes me want him more than anything .
His office door is closed when I arrive. I lift my hand to knock when the sound of a woman’s laugh drifts through the door. Jealousy slices clean through me.
Shit, was I wrong? Is he interested in someone else?
Or worse, does he have a girlfriend ?
But his office door swings open, and one of my classmates steps out. Stef, I think her name is. She smiles as she passes, and I lift my lips in return, relieved to see that Nick isn’t looking at her.
He’s looking at me, hovering in the doorway. My heart trips over itself, and I take a deep breath.
“Do you have a moment, Professor Sweetman?”
He adjusts his glasses carefully, nodding.
“Yes, Miss Sinclair.” His gaze stays firmly fixed on my face, despite the cute outfit I’m wearing.
A dress that highlights my cleavage and swishes around my thighs.
He motions for me to enter his office, stacking papers efficiently on his desk, his tone neutral as he adds, “What can I help you with?”
“I just wanted to say, your class today was…” My voice comes out huskier than intended, and his gaze meets mine, heavy and loaded. Like he’s begging me not to finish that sentence.
The air in his office thickens, swirling with everything I want to say.
With words I think he might like to say, too.
It smells like him in here, that clean, masculine scent from his cologne, and the faintest hint of leather.
I imagine pushing his office door closed, perching on the edge of his desk, and grabbing him by the tie to drag his lips to mine.
Heat flashes through me at the thought, and I swallow.
“Did you have a question, Miss Sinclair?” He’s aiming for cool professionalism, but the rough edge to his voice gives him away. In the past, his abrupt question might have stung, but I recognize it for what it is. A man who feels out of control and hates it.
And it makes me want to pull back.
It doesn’t matter if we both feel this. I have too much respect for this man to taunt him. To make him do something he’d regret.
“No,” I say, lowering my gaze as I place my work on his desk. “Here’s my assignment.” Then I reach into my bag, pulling out the wrapped sketchbook. “And… I wanted to give you this.”
His brow pinches in confusion, eyes moving between mine and the gift in my outstretched hand. “I don’t…” he begins, and I step closer, setting it on his desk before he can refuse.
“You’ve helped me remember why I love art,” I say gently. “I thought maybe I could return the favor.” Before he can say anything more, I turn on my heel.
My heart races as I step from his office.