18. Nick
NICK
Z innia is surprisingly quiet at life drawing later that night.
At first, I think it’s because of the weather, with heavy sheets of rain pounding the pavement as the students stream inside, moaning about what an awful night it is.
But Zinnia’s not the type to let a little rain dull her mood, and as the class wears on without a hint of her usual, bubbly self, I wonder if it’s because of me, because I haven’t thanked her for her gift.
Or because I didn’t go to Joe’s this afternoon.
I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I forced myself to work in the corner of the faculty lounge, headphones on to drown out my colleagues.
I made a little progress, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Zinnia and Cole, laughing in the library.
I was so busy ruminating that I forgot I’d left my cell in my office, and had to ask Gary if I could use his to time tonight’s exercises.
I’ve never felt so scattered, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up. There are still three weeks of class left, and while it felt easy enough to compartmentalize before—on campus we’re professor and student, in Brooklyn Heights it’s more relaxed—those lines are blurring by the day.
Especially when Zinnia is on my mind day and night, regardless of where I am. My brain knows the difference, but I’m not sure my dick does.
Fuck.
I shake the thought off, instructing Zinnia on the final pose, then deliberately turning away to watch the rain lash the windowpanes.
Honestly, I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I’m not a guy who thinks about sex. It’s been years since I was last intimate with anyone, and even then, I could take it or leave it.
We’ve gotten so good at explaining things that we don’t always let them move us anymore. As if it’s safer to analyze rather than feel .
Zinnia’s words from Joe’s come back to me, and I exhale heavily. She’s right. I live my entire life in my head, intellectualizing and analyzing, keeping a careful distance from feelings of any kind. I’d always considered that a good thing. Admirable.
But as I think back to Marcus gazing softly at Priya over dinner last week, I’m starting to second-guess myself. Seeing the man I’ve always idolized for his cool, calm emotional detachment lose himself over a woman has shaken everything I’ve known.
June asks me to wrap up class early because of the weather, and people reluctantly head out into the storm.
Her brow creases in worry, one eye on the rain outside as I pack away the easels, and I tell her I’m happy to lock up.
She looks relieved, pressing a key into my hand before heading out.
Zinnia lingers, and I open my mouth to tell her she can leave too, but that’s not what comes out.
“Thank you for the gift,” I say, folding down an easel. “It was thoughtful.”
A smile curls along her lips, the first proper one I’ve seen from her all evening. “You’re welcome. I wasn’t sure if…” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I’m glad you like it.”
I drag the pedestal across the floor, frowning as she stacks the chairs. It’s fine, I tell myself. I’ll be gone in five minutes.
“I saw you at the library,” she murmurs. “I would have said hi, but you seemed…” she trails off again, chewing her bottom lip, and I glance away, steering the conversation in her direction. What would a professor say?
“What class did you have today?” I ask lightly.
"What?” She gives me a puzzled look. “None. I only went in to study.” Her eyes rest on me for a moment longer, realization slowly dawning. “I’m not taking any other classes,” she adds. “Only yours.”
My heart jumps at her words. I know they mean nothing, but some stupid, caveman part of my brain misinterprets them.
Only yours .
I force my gaze away, folding another easel. “Why’s that?”
“Oh. Well…” She shrugs as she stacks the chairs. “I don’t live in the city. I’m only here visiting Gran for the summer. Class was just something to do. I’ll be gone by Labor Day.”
My stomach drops. I stare at her, pulse thrumming in my temple.
She’s leaving ? I’d assumed she’d be there next semester, and that even if she wasn’t in my class, I’d see her at life drawing or maybe around campus.
But knowing she’s leaving stirs a hot twist in my chest I don’t like.
I tell myself it’s because she’s too passionate about art not to continue studying. That it would be a loss to the field.
But I don’t for a second believe it.
I clear my throat, turning back to the easel.
A loud crack of thunder rattles the windowpanes, saving me from responding as she sets the last chair against the wall.
The lights flicker momentarily, and Zinnia’s gaze zips to mine.
Her eyes widen in fear, but as the lights settle, her expression smooths.
“Sorry,” she says, emitting a sheepish laugh. “I hate blackouts.”
I chuckle, surprised. She’s not afraid to stand naked and exposed in the middle of the room, but darkness scares her. What a fascinating woman.
“Why—” I begin, but before I can finish my words, there’s a loud boom, and the room plunges into darkness. Zinnia shrieks beside me, making me jump.
“Hey, you’re okay,” I tell her, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but from what I can tell, the entire neighborhood is out, and there’s little light to adjust to. I fumble in my pocket for my phone, remembering I left it on my desk. Shit.
Beside me, Zinnia’s breathing becomes shallow and erratic. I turn toward her, even though I can’t see a thing.
“Zinnia,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “You’re okay.”
“I’m n-not—” Her words come out stuttered and disjointed, and concern lances through me.
Fuck, she doesn’t just hate power outages, she’s on the verge of a panic attack.
I grope helplessly for something to do. Light. We need some light.
“I don’t have my phone,” I tell her, cursing myself again. “Where’s yours?”
“My bag—” She gulps in a breath. “On the sofa.”
“Okay. Why don’t I—”
“No!” she cries. Then, a second later, in a much smaller voice, “Don’t leave me.”
Oh. Honey .
Everything in me softens, and without thinking, I reach for her. Thankfully, my hand lands on her elbow. I follow the line down her arm until her palm curls into mine. It’s cold and clammy and shaking, and it takes all my strength not to lift it to my lips, to ease her fear.
“I’m here, okay?” I say, voice hoarse. “I won’t leave.”
Her fingers tighten in mine. “Thank you,” she whispers, barely audible above the storm. My heart stumbles at the vulnerability in her voice, and I straighten, taking charge.
“Okay. Let’s find your bag.”
I turn cautiously toward the windows. We packed away all the easels and chairs, so I know the path is clear, but with Zinnia trembling beside me, I need to be sure.
I glance her way just as lightning flashes, illuminating her wide, startled eyes.
They meet mine before vanishing back into black, and instinctively, I pull her closer.
“You’re okay,” I repeat as we make our way carefully across the room, her pulse thumping against my palm. “Nearly there.” My leg hits something soft, and I fumble for a moment along the sofa, then scoop up her bag. “Here.”
Her hand loosens in mine, lingering for a beat before falling away, and I have to ignore the dash of disappointment in my chest.
God, I’m so fucked up, enjoying holding her hand when she’s so clearly upset.
Her phone light flicks on, sending a ghostly white glow across the easels against the wall, the rest of the room left in shadow.
“Fuck,” Zinnia says under her breath. “My battery is about to die.”
“Did you just curse?” I tease, like she teased me in Joe’s.
“Yes,” she replies wryly. “The moment calls for it.”
I chuckle, relieved to hear she’s feeling better. “Fair enough.”
“I should go.” She shines the light at the windows, rattling in the ferocious rain. “I’m worried about Gran.”
I hesitate. It’s not my place, and I really shouldn’t encourage Zinnia to stay here with me, alone in the dark, but worry ripples through me.
“It’s not safe out there. Not with the power out. I’m sure your grandmother will be fine.”
The light shakes in Zinnia’s hand, and I make out a furrow in her brow. “What if she’s not?”
“What would she usually be doing right now?”
She considers this. “Watching The Great British Bake Off .”
I smile. “Then she’s probably fine, staying put in her chair.”
“Maybe,” Zinnia relents. “But—”
“You won’t do her any favors by getting hurt in the dark, Zinnia.” I motion to her phone. “Especially if that dies.”
She grimaces. “You’re right.” Her fingers fly across the screen, then a moment later her phone buzzes, and her shoulders relax. “Gran’s fine.” She glances up. “But what are we going to do? I only have seven percent battery left.”
I blow out a breath, thinking. “Let’s check the kitchen. Maybe June has some candles.”
Zinnia nods, and I let her lead the way with the phone light.
It doesn’t take us long to find a collection of half-used taper candles jammed into bottles, probably left over from a poetry reading or something, and I carry a few through to the studio.
I set them on the wooden floor and strike a match, watching the flames cast dancing orange light over the exposed brick walls.
Zinnia exhales long and slow as we settle onto the velvet sofa. “Sorry,” she says, looking embarrassed in a way I’ve never seen. “I didn’t mean to freak out.”
I twist to face her, softening. “We’re all afraid of something.”
Her eyes move between mine. “What’s your thing?”
I huff an uncomfortable laugh, dropping my gaze. What am I going to say? That I’m too afraid to open the sketchbook she gave me? That I want to draw her more than anything, but I’m too much of a coward to try?
Zinnia rises from the sofa, heading to the refreshment table at the back. There’s still half a bottle of wine left, and she swipes it, along with two plastic cups, heading back to the sofa. I watch as she pours it, holding one out to me.
“You don’t have to drink,” she says, “but I could use one.”
Chuckling, I take the cup, gulping a mouthful of red wine. I need a drink after holding Zinnia’s hand. My heart rate still hasn’t returned to normal.
She chews her lip, gazing at me, as if debating whether to ask something. “Have you used the sketchbook yet?”
I wipe my palm across my thigh, shaking my head.
She’s quiet for a beat, then says, “That’s your thing, isn’t it?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I take another gulp of wine, setting the cup down to take my glasses off and clean them on my shirt. Maybe I feel less exposed in the shadows, or maybe it’s that Zinnia was just incredibly vulnerable with me, but I nod.
“I haven’t drawn since I was a teenager.”
“Oh,” she says softly, pressing a hand to her sternum. “Wow.”
I shrug, reaching for my wine again. I need this more than I realized.
“It doesn’t bother me,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re not true. What I don’t know is when they became untrue.
Or if they always were.
Zinnia studies me over her plastic cup, the stud in her nose glinting in the candlelight. “I don’t believe you.”
I lift my brows, issuing an incredulous laugh. “Is that right?”
She nods, smiling. “Yes, and I don’t even think you believe it.”
I grimace, glancing away. Has she always been this perceptive?
“Why did you stop?”
“It’s… complicated,” I mutter. A cop-out.
She motions to the dark, rain-streaked windows. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I exhale long and slow. Could I really tell her? It feels pathetic to even think it, let alone say it, but as she gazes at me patiently, a crack forms in my chest, enough to let a tiny sliver of light in.
“My brother,” I murmur, taking another steadying sip of wine. It drains my cup, and Zinnia wordlessly refills it. “He found my sketchbooks and laughed.”
“Nick,” she says, voice so soft I barely hear it above the storm.
“It’s stupid.” I square my shoulders. “I know it’s stupid. It was decades ago.”
Her brows crash together, and for the briefest second, I think she’s going to agree. But as she gives a slow, angry shake of her head, I realize I’m wrong. Her hand lands on my arm, tentatively at first, then firm and reassuring, thumb stroking my skin, and my heart catapults into my throat.
“It’s not stupid,” she says fiercely. “It’s awful.”
I stare at her hand, pulse beating wildly. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like this, let alone a woman. A woman I’m madly attracted to.
Zinnia .
“You must have felt so humiliated,” she says, eyes swimming with compassion.
Emotion rushes up inside me, unexpected and foreign, and I blink, turning away.
I wait for her to withdraw her hand, maybe joke or change the subject, but she stays right where she is, gaze steadfastly on me, thumb stroking tiny circles on my skin. The intensity of her attention, the warmth of her hand… It’s too much.
I drag my gaze back to hers, breath turning shallow. Maybe I’d thought she’d laugh at me, or tell me it wasn’t a big deal. Whatever I’d expected, it wasn’t this. Her sitting with me, listening, hearing, seeing what I’m not saying.
Not turning away.
But that’s Zinnia, isn’t it? I think of her describing the chapel, the way she said, I felt something… big and small at the same time. I felt alive .
She’s not afraid to feel.
And suddenly all I can do is feel. Grief for the years I’ve lost, not drawing. Anger at Marcus for taking that from me. Pure admiration for this woman in front of me.
And desire.
So much fucking desire for her. To kiss her, undress her slowly, find out what it’s like to feel with her.
My gaze falls to her lips, full and plump and pink, wondering what she’d taste like. They part ever so slightly, inviting me in, and she leans closer, as if in confirmation. Her eyes search mine, bottomless and aching, and compelled by a force beyond my control, I lean in too.
The flicker of the lights makes us freeze. I blink, disoriented as they come back on, illuminating the room in bright, harsh light.
Shit.
We lurch apart, my pulse spiraling.
Was I about to kiss her? I’ve lost my mind.
I glance outside, noticing the storm has calmed.
We can leave.
Rising, I blow out the candles. I can’t look at Zinnia as I stiffly tug on my jacket, and she grabs her bag.
“Well… goodnight,” she says, and I nod, swallowing.
“Goodnight.” I want to tell her to get home safely, maybe even to offer to walk her, but I don’t trust myself with words right now.
Instead, I let her slip out the door into the night.