20. Zinnia
ZINNIA
I ’m delighted when Nick announces at the end of Monday’s class that we’re doing a field trip to the Met for the Titian exhibit.
We meet on Wednesday on the steps of the museum, buzzing with anticipation, the city humming around us.
Cole sidles up to me with a wide grin, which I politely return.
He’s perfectly nice, but I should never have gone to that study group with him.
He spent the entire time hitting on me, and has made it pretty clear what he wants.
And I could not be less interested.
Not after the moment Nick and I shared during the blackout. The way he took my hand as I spiraled, speaking to me in that gentle, calming voice. If it hadn’t been for him, solid and steady beside me, I would have had a full-blown panic attack.
But I didn’t. I felt the warmth of his palm in mine, and everything felt right with the world.
Then I wasn’t breathless from panic, not when all I could think about was his hand touching me, wondering what he’d do if I placed it on my breast, slid it over my stomach, between my thighs. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.
Maybe that’s why he nearly kissed me before the lights came back on.
I sigh, thinking again about that night.
My heart aches every time I remember what he told me about his brother laughing at his drawings.
It must have devastated him. I bet they were amazing, too.
Nick has such an eye for composition and proportion; his drawings were probably better than da Vinci’s. I wish I could see them.
And I wish I could get him to draw again.
I shake the thought off as Nick arrives, greeting us on the steps. He’s in his usual tweed jacket and tie, hair ruffled and glasses glinting in the afternoon sun, looking so damn edible I suddenly feel famished.
Stop , I tell myself, as we enter the cavernous foyer of the museum. Focus on the art .
Nick doesn’t look my way as he addresses the group, saying something about how lucky we are to view Titian’s best work.
Then we follow him up the grand staircase, a long, wide set of marble stairs flanked by Corinthian columns that lead through an arch onto the second floor.
Our footsteps echo as we walk, along with excited chatter among the students.
Cole strides ahead, as if he needs to be first up the steps, and I can’t say I’m not relieved.
We begin with early Renaissance art, where Nick recaps the ideas we covered in the Florence school, including the focus on intellectual, line-driven composition, a concept he calls disegno .
“For the Florentine painter, it was all about precision,” Nick says, motioning to an early 15th-century work influenced by Masaccio. “The word disegno translates as drawing, or design. Look at the crisp edges and geometric lines.”
Students clamor to get a better view, and I step aside. I saw this work a few weeks ago with Gran, and I turn to send Nick a smile to remind him, but he won’t meet my gaze. He hasn’t looked at me since we arrived, and my heart clenches as I think about it.
We carry on through the Florentine section, and every time Nick says something brilliant, something that makes me want to step closer, I force myself to step away.
Why let myself want him so badly when nothing can happen?
Even if it could, I’ll be leaving soon. Then Nick will be nothing but a distant memory, fading with time until he’s little more than a vague silhouette in my mind, a man I once crossed paths with, just like every other guy I’ve met.
But as I tell myself that, I know I won’t forget Nick.
I won’t forget the way he talks about art, so detailed and precise, so fucking intelligent, that undercurrent of passion he keeps in check.
I won’t forget those brief moments in Joe’s, after life drawing, even in the park on Monday, where he let his guard down enough for me to glimpse the man he is underneath. I couldn’t forget if I tried.
“We’re heading into the Venetian room now,” he tells the class. “Look for the shift in color and atmosphere.”
We follow him around the corner, and my eyes land on a familiar figure. My breath catches in my lungs.
Oh my God, it’s her. Venus of Urbino .
And she’s stunning .
My gaze flies instinctively to Nick. Did he know she’d be here? Why didn’t he tell me? Look at me , I plead silently, and as if he hears, his gaze finally meets mine.
I grin in disbelief, mouthing, Wow , and he gives a single nod, letting his gaze fall away again.
My pulse accelerates as I gaze at Venus, unable to stop myself from stepping closer.
The hum of activity around us disappears as I study her.
Unlike Botticelli’s Venus, ethereal as she floats above her seashell, this Venus reclines on a bed.
Everything about her feels intimate and sensual, soft and curvaceous and inviting, and when I glance back to find Nick watching me, I wonder if that’s what he sees when I pose.
If that’s what he sees when he looks at me.
Nick adjusts his glasses, looking away. “With the Venetian school,” he tells the class, “you can see the emphasis on colorito . Light and color.” He motions to Venus. “Titian built form through color and flesh tones, making Venus feel warm, embodied, and real.”
I nod, because I see it. I feel it. She almost seems alive up there, like if I reached out to touch her, I’d feel warmth, a pulse beating under my fingertips.
“The interesting thing about this portrayal of Venus is how domestic she is,” Nick continues. “Titian positioned her indoors, with cassoni —or marriage chests—in the background. That suggests this particular painting may have been a marriage painting, intended to be looked at intimately.”
I sigh, entranced as I listen to Nick talk about his favorite piece. I can feel that passion in him, closer to the surface than ever, and it’s all I can do not to cross to him, not to take his mouth and kiss him until he has no choice but to let it break free.
“She’s pretty hot,” Cole says to a guy beside me, shattering the mood.
“Totally, dude,” the guy agrees. “I’d do her.”
I glance over to find them grinning as they look at Venus, nude yet unbothered, and I shoot them a murderous look. Hot ? Do her? Jesus Christ.
Thankfully, Nick hasn’t heard.
“Can anyone tell me why this particular painting might be considered controversial?” he asks the class, and a few hands shoot up. Nick’s eyes land on Cole, and he motions to him.
“Because she’s, like, totally naked,” Cole says, grinning confidently.
Even from here I can see Nick fight the urge to roll his eyes. “No, Mr. Sandford. Nudes were very common at the time.”
Glancing back at Venus, I think about how artists have portrayed women throughout history, as objects of piety or beauty. Always as objects. Passive. Intended to be looked at, not to do the looking. And as I take in her direct, inviting gaze, I realize exactly what Nick’s referring to.
“Professor Sweetman?” I ask, raising my hand.
Nick’s eyes meet mine, and as he gives a swift nod, it almost seems as though he’s holding his breath.
“Is it her gaze?”
His mouth pulls into a tiny smile, and he glances down to hide it.
“That’s correct, Miss Sinclair. Unlike most nudes of the time, this one looks directly at the viewer.
There’s no shame, no modesty. Her gaze acknowledges that she is being seen.
More than that,” he adds, bringing his eyes back to me, as if speaking to me alone, “she invites the viewer to look.”
My heart stumbles as his gaze bores into mine.
I flashback to life-drawing class, when I removed my bra for the first time.
When I watched Nick intensely, daring him to look at me.
To see me. It was after he told me how much he loved this painting, after I’d first seen it.
I was trying to be her. He wouldn’t let himself look at me, but he’d looked at her. She was his favorite.
And I wanted him to look at me like that.
“Who holds the power here?” Nick asks the class, gaze still locked on mine. “The one looking, or the one being looked at?”
My pulse surges. I remember the class that followed that one, too, where I wouldn’t even look at Nick because of how hurt I was after he shut me down on campus.
I felt him watch me more than ever, as if he couldn’t stand me looking away, so much so that he knelt beside me and brushed my hair from my eyes, despite himself.
I held the power. I’ve held it all along.
And he knows it.
Nick finally drags his eyes from mine, exhaling heavily as he rakes a hand through his tousled waves. My gaze follows the motion, desire burning hot in my belly. God , I want him. I don’t care that he’s my professor, that I’m leaving soon. I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want Nick.
He forces his gaze to the class. “Your final assignment will be a comparative visual analysis. Choose one Venetian piece here, and compare it to a Florentine piece we studied earlier, addressing differences in line, color, and composition. This will account for 60% of your final grade.”
The students whisper among themselves, slowly dispersing to examine the paintings in more detail, but I’m rooted to the spot. When Nick notices, his brow knits, and he turns to study Venus. I step closer.
“She’s beautiful,” I murmur, low enough for only him to hear. “I can see why she’s your favorite.”
He sighs, saying nothing. I should probably move away, choose a painting for the assignment, but I can’t get my feet to work. Not when I already know I’m going to write about her.
Not when I need to be close to Nick.
“What do you love about her?” I ask.
His jaw tenses. For a second I think he won’t respond, but then he says, barely above a whisper, “Her boldness.”
I nod. She is bold, with that reclining pose, that challenging gaze. Then there’s her hand, resting at the apex of her thighs. Maybe I shouldn’t mention it, but her boldness inspires me, and I glance back at Nick.
“What about her hand? At first it looks like she’s covering herself for modesty, but the closer you get, the more it seems like she wants you to look there.”
A muscle flickers in Nick’s jaw. Maybe I’m pushing too much, but I can’t stop myself.
“I like it,” I say, tilting my head as I study her. “She’s confident, owning her body and her sensuality, but she also controls how much we see. She could choose to reveal herself completely, but she doesn’t. That feels powerful.”
Nick presses his eyes closed, as if he’s in pain. Gone is the composed professor, critically evaluating the painting through an art historian’s eyes. Instead, he’s a man on the edge, barely holding on. And as a group of students wander past discussing Venus, guilt trickles through me.
I shouldn’t do this to him. Not here. Not now.
Sucking in a steadying breath, I step away.
Nick’s eyes meet mine, somehow both relieved and regretful, and I smile faintly as I leave the Venetian room.
I know it’s not fair to push him, but it’s getting harder and harder to hold back.
Not when all I can think about is what his mouth would taste like.
What his hands would feel like on my skin.
How fucking good it would be to finally see him let go.
I wander around the European Paintings section, thinking about Nick, forcing myself to keep my distance.
It’s over an hour later when I finally step back into the Venetian room, and with Nick long gone, I sit in front of Venus and really take her in.
I imagine him beside me on the bench, the way he’d describe her, his fingers brushing mine as we talk for hours.
What would it be like to be with him, really be with him?
Not just for a night or two, but longer?
The thought hits me out of nowhere, taking me by surprise.
I don’t do longer. It’s not who I am.
But with Nick… it’s hard to imagine spending a night with him and walking away. Honestly, it’s hard to imagine walking away when class ends in a couple weeks.
Shaking the thought off, I rise from the bench, wandering absently through another wing. I don’t know what time it is as I make my way into a stairwell at one end of the museum, all I know is the growing ache in my chest. The longing I feel for Nick.
My feet fall softly on the marble steps, echoing as I descend the quiet stairwell. And when I round the corner to see a figure sitting on a step, I freeze.
Nick.
He glances up at my footsteps, brows lifting in surprise when he sees me. He straightens, wiping his hands on his pants, as I continue down the steps.
“You’re still here?”
“Yes.” I stop a few steps above, gazing down at him. “Looking at Venus. I like seeing her through your eyes. I like the way you look at things.” I pause, and in the hush of the stairwell, I can’t hold it in anymore. “The way you look at me .”
His nostrils flare. “Zinnia…” he begins, tone laced with warning.
But I gaze at him brazenly, undeterred. He likes Venus’s boldness. Maybe I need to be bolder.
“You feel this too,” I say. “I know you do.”
He makes that same agonized expression again. “It doesn’t matter what I feel,” he grits out. “You’re my student.”
A thrill shoots down my spine. He’s not denying it. He feels this. And it makes me want to push. To hear him say it.
“I’ve seen you look at me in life-drawing class.”
“I’m teaching a class where I have to look at you,” he mutters, taking his glasses off to wipe them on his jacket.
I notice the button is undone, his tie loosened and hair more mussed than usual, like he’s slowly coming apart at the seams, and all I want to do is pull at the threads until he unravels completely.
“But you like to look,” I say. A statement, not a question.
He slides his glasses back on. His denim-blue eyes finally meet mine, darker than before, but he stays silent.
“What do you see?” I press. “When you look at me in that class, what do you see?”
A muscle tics in his jaw, like he’s trying to hold the words in. “I’m not going to say you’re not beautiful, Zinnia.”
“You already said it in front of the class,” I remind him, and he winces. “You may as well say it to me.”
“I can’t…”
“Nick,” I plead, needing to hear him say it. Needing to know I’m not alone in this. I step down until I’m only a few inches away, eyeline level with his. “Tell me what you feel. Please.”
His eyes move searchingly between mine, chest rising and falling with his rapid breathing. For a second I think he’s going to do it—he’s going to finally admit he feels this as intensely as I do.
But he tears his gaze away, shaking his head. “I feel nothing.”
Then he exits the stairwell, leaving me alone.