Nobody Looks Good in Leather Pants (or bowties), Dear Professor Book #1

Part 4

He unfolded his arms and scratched the back of his neck, his stare narrowing until the glacial blue of his irises were small slits. My attention snagged on his forearm. I suspected the baring of his forearms earlier had been an attempt at torture. His forearms were magnificent. And so were his hands. Not that I was staring at them.

Nope. Not staring. Just looking. Yep.

"Anna," he said, making me blink his face back into focus.

"Yes?" I squeaked. Again, I was startled. This time by the use of my first name.

He studied me for a protracted moment before stating, "You've read Onegin."

I nodded and said, "Yes," even though he hadn't asked me a question.

"Which of the others on the class syllabus have you already read?"

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, confused. He didn't sound angry. That was good, right?

"Uh, let's see," I fiddled with the strap of my bag, "Maybe it would be better for me to list which of the books on the syllabus I haven't read."

One side of his mouth hitched upward. "Fine."

"Okay, so, um. I haven't read Nikolay Chernychevsky's What is to be Done? Or Maxim Gorky's Mother." I tried not to butcher the name Chernychevsky, but it was ultimately impossible. I had no idea which syllable deserved the emphasis.

He waited for me to continue with my list, his eyebrows lifting by millimeters when I remained silent.

"That's it?"

I nodded.

"Those are the only two you haven't read?"

I nodded again.

His jaw slid to the side while his gaze flickered down then up my body. "Did you know it was me?"

My lips parted while my eyebrows danced on my forehead; I didn't understand his question. 

"Pardon?"

Professor Kroft pushed away from the table, stuffing his fine fingers into his pants pockets, and strolled forward, his gaze searching.

"On Valentine's Day. Did you know who I was?"

I tried to take a step back only for my heel to connect with the stair behind me. "Uh, no. No, I had no idea. I thought you were just a biker dude, or something." My thwarted retreat might have been responsible for the unrehearsed, blunt honesty of my words.

He slowed his advance, both sides of his mouth curving upward for a split second before he erased the almost smile from his face.

"But you figured it out eventually?"

I shook my head again, bracing my feet apart to stand my ground. "No. I had no idea you were a professor. Not until today."

"Then why are you in this class?" he demanded quietly, three feet separating us; the size of his frame made his proximity feel imposing.

"Because I like tragic stories." More unrehearsed and clumsy honesty.

"Tragic stories?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "In your email you said you were a romantic."

"I am."

"But you like tragic stories."

I nodded.

He scowled. "That makes no sense."

"It does. The most romantic stories always have tragic elements."