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

Part 5

Since the web page was already up, I decided to read it. What could be the harm in that?

The University's policy was ambiguous. As consenting adults, fraternization was not forbidden. But faculty (and staff) were encouraged to avoid practices and behaviors that give the appearance of favoritism, harassment, or discrimination. Of course, true favoritism, harassment, and discrimination were outright prohibited, not to mention usually illegal.

Either way, it didn't matter.

If I dropped the class I would never see him again. Problem solved.

If I didn't drop the class then he would be my pessimistic professor, and I would be his quixotic student for the next ten weeks, and that would be that. Problem also solved . . . sorta.

I pushed my obsessive thoughts to the deep recesses of my mind—where I stored information about folding sheets correctly and how to be a proper lady—and occupied myself with work, being mindful not to rush.

Immersing myself in waiting tables did the trick. I'd completely forgotten about the class and Professor Leatherpants until I saw him.

. . . wait! WHAT?

I strolled out of the kitchen alcove, ready to welcome the table of twenty that had just been seated, when I spotted him. I had no other choice but to jump behind a potted plastic tree and do a double take, hoping against hope that the super hottie in black pants and a black dress shirt was not my professor.

Apparently, hope is for hipsters because hope failed me.

He was sitting in the chair closest to the kitchen and facing the alcove, I had a clear view. His hair was elegantly styled rather than spiked like it had been at Jake's Microbrewery, or natural and lose like it had been at class. He was also without bowtie or leather pants, as far as I could tell. But it was definitely Professor Kroft.

And he was sitting among nineteen other people at one long table. In my section.

Why me? WHY ME??

Oh the wretchedness.

"What's going on? What are you waiting for? Do you want me to get their drinks?" Sasha stopped next to me, already frantic.

Five years older than me and an underserver, Sasha hadn't quite learned how to be mindful. She was panicky and we hadn't even taken their orders yet.

"Calm down, Sasha-frantic." I patted her shoulder, still peering at the table where the professor sat. Next to him was a very, very pretty woman who looked a lot like him: same blonde hair, same blue eyes, same mouth. Different nose, though.

Unless they were one of those creepy brother-sister couples—you know, the ones that aren't related but look like they could be—this woman was his actual sister. Which meant he was out with his family.

"Anna? What are you doing?"

I straightened my shoulders and tried to shake off my creeper complex. "This is what we're going to do: I'm going to take the drink orders. You go grab some bread, butter, and water for the table. When you come out, I'll give you the orders I've taken so far, you enter them and wait at the bar for the order. I'll enter the rest so—hopefully—everything will be ready at the same time. I'll carry out the first load, you get the second. Meanwhile, I'll tell them about the specials, and so forth. Sound good?"

She nodded. "I can do this."

I grabbed her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. "You can, Sasha. You can do this. You are Sasha-fantastic."